


Project Beyonce: The Unmaking of Dean Winchester in Ten Easy Steps

by MittenWraith



Series: Tumblr Anonymous [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Academic Castiel, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bees, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Human Castiel, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Mutual Pining, Possibly excessive use of the phrase Fiance Anon, Tumblr Prompt, aggravating fractions, no literally a tumblr prompt about tumblr that turned into this mess all about tumblr, semiotics and the painful abuse of that entire field of study with sincere apologies, there should be a tag for tumblr tags but that would be a tagged tag tag and that's too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3652659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MittenWraith/pseuds/MittenWraith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester inherited his father’s garage (and their family home, and his 14-year-old genius of a brother) shortly after his eighteenth birthday. Their Uncle Bobby comes down to help Dean learn how to run the business, and Sam convinces his brother to take some classes so he’ll be equipped to expand the mom and pop garage into the classic restoration shop he’s dreamed about for years. Now five years later, a little foray onto the internet to promote his shop leads Dean to a very interesting corner of Tumblr, and a mysterious online friend who only knows Dean as his #Fiance Anon. What happens after more than a year of increasingly fond anonymous correspondence?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Then to Now

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes. This all started because of [THIS POST](http://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/post/113560925670/your-answer-to-how-you-came-to-name-the-anons-or). It was severely exacerbated after I read [THIS](http://venusdebotticelli.tumblr.com/post/107409723486/important-otp-questions-who-is-the-aesthetic) one. So, yeah. Instead of writing a few thousand words of misunderstandings and cuddles, I ended up with this monstrosity. It is entirely written. I’ll post new chapters as they are edited. This is my first attempt at an AU, and it kept trying to balloon out of control. There might be a few pinches of crack in there, but it’s proven that crack (at least fic crack) is good for the soul.

It’s Thursday afternoon, and Dean sits at the rickety little desk in his glorified closet of an office behind the cramped front counter at Winchester Auto. The only window looks out into the service area, but he doesn’t spend much time behind his desk when there’s work to be done in any of the four service bays. He’s a hands-on kind of boss, happier when he’s elbow-deep in a restoration job than surveying his tiny kingdom through a four by four pane of glass.

It’s not palatial, but it’s finally his. Or it will be, as soon as the check he just sealed into the envelope resting on the desk in front of him reaches its destination.

 

When his father died suddenly almost five years ago and left him with mortgages on their home and business, Dean had no idea how he and his brother were going to make it through. He’d just turned eighteen, thankfully, and was legally able to drop out of school to work full time at the shop, but what the hell did he really know about running a business?

He could rebuild anything with four wheels and an engine, but shove a bit of paperwork under his nose and he was deer-in-the-headlights panicking. Thank heavens for Uncle Bobby. As soon as he got word of John’s death, he left his own shop in South Dakota in the capable hands of his business partner and kept Dean from running himself off the rails.

First of all, he’d made Dean go back to school, with a gruff “How do you expect to keep a business afloat if you can’t even stick through the last two months of high school, ya idjit.” Then he'd quietly stepped in to run things until Dean was ready to take over.

It was Sam who, genius even at fourteen, encouraged him to take a few business classes at the local community college the summer after he graduated. He fought it at first. Over dinner one night in the days after he started working at the shop full-time, the argument came to a head.

“I know how to fix cars, Sammy, why the fuck do I want to waste time I could spend earning money at it sitting in a room full of dopes who don’t know how to balance a checkbook or keep up with payroll? That stuff’s all squared away, thanks to Bobby.” He jerked his head at their grumpy old sort-of-uncle, as if waiting for him to confirm that three months of practical experience was all anyone needed to handle the job.

“Bobby’s not gonna be here forever, Dean. He’s gonna go home sooner or later. Then what’re you gonna do if something happens?”

Dean snorted and stabbed at his mashed potatoes. “What kind of thing is gonna happen, Sam? I think I’m good for anything short of an apocalypse at this point. Everything runs like clockwork. Steady flow of customers, suppliers all lined up, bills paid on time, employees happy.”

Bobby sat back and shrugged a shoulder, flicking his eyes to Sam as if to say, _your move, buddy. You convince the dumbass he needs more help than I can give him._

Sam just stared at Dean. “You’re the one who’d been begging Dad for years to let you take on restoration jobs. Since you were my age. You used to have bigger plans than replacing mufflers and doing oil changes. What happened to that? Are you just giving up and settling for what Dad left you?”

Dean set down his fork, leaned back, and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring down at his half-eaten dinner like his forced participation in this godforsaken conversation was somehow the meatloaf’s fault. He mumbled out the reply he’d been repeating in his head like a mantra for weeks. “Dad left us a good business. We do just fine. There’s no reason to shake things up and put it all at risk. There’s something to be said for keeping the roof over our heads and the lights on.” He managed to meet Sam’s gaze by the last few words. It wasn’t the stern defiance he’d been aiming for, but eye contact was a step up from watching the gravy congeal on his plate.

“How can you be okay with that, Dean? All you’ve talked about since you were old enough to start working in the shop was how someday you’d take it all to the next level. And yeah, no one can fix a car like you can, Dean, but if you really wanna take on restorations, you’re gonna have to know more about business management, networking, dealing with online suppliers for custom parts, and stuff like that. You don’t even know how to check your email!” Sam stood up in exasperation and paced back and forth behind his chair.

Dean reined in the chuckle that was dying to escape, because the little muppet was adorable when he got angry.

Bobby took advantage of Sam’s exasperation and Dean’s bemusement. He cleared his throat to get their attention. “Kid’s got a point, there.”

Sam halted and whipped around to face Bobby, looking a little stunned that the old man agreed with him.

Dean rolled his eyes, and Bobby leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. “Those things’ll roll right outta your head one of these days if you don’t learn to keep a handle on 'em.”

Dean huffed. “So, what, you think it’s a good idea to put Dad’s life’s work at risk just so I can have a little fun playing tinkertoys with some old junkers? The garage ain’t my personal playground, Bobby. You taught me that.”

“No, but it is your future, unless you intend to sell out and find some other line of work.”

Dean cut him off, indignant. “No way. Dad meant for it to be a family business, and it’s gonna stay a family business. That’s all I’m trying to do here.”

“But Dean, what’s gonna happen a few years down the road when I go off to college? You know I don’t have your talent for cars. If it’s just you in the family business, are you gonna be happy doing tune-ups on Toyotas forever? Really?”

“Well, I at least have to get you and your giant brain through college first, Sammy. If I start changing things up now, I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to afford to pay for it. Things are stable now. We shouldn’t rock the boat.”

“But Dean, what if you had the knowledge to expand the business without risking anything? Isn’t it worth the effort to at least _try_ while you have a chance?” Sam busted out the pleading puppy dog eyes and Dean felt his resolve crumbling.

“I’m headed home as soon as you say the word, Dean,” Bobby added in a softer voice. “But if you’re willing to put in the effort, I’ll stay on as long as you need me to help out. Your daddy always talked about expanding into restorations, mostly because you wanted to, but he never got beyond daydreaming about it, the damn fool. You have a gift for it, Dean, more than he ever did. You could make it work.”

 

And that was it. The Beginning of the End, if he only knew it then.

Bobby stayed on through the end of the year, while Dean took a few business management and computer courses. He spent every free moment out behind the garage rebuilding an old Chevelle Bobby had generously donated to the cause. When Dean tried to pay him for the rusted out old wreck, Bobby scowled at him and called it _his investment in Dean’s future._ It took six solid months of work, scavenging parts from wherever he could find them, but it put his newfound computer skills to the test.

He built a solid network of colleagues and potential clients by posting regular updates of the Chevelle’s restoration on Tumblr. Somehow, over the course of a few months, he’d gained a couple thousand loyal followers on the site, several of whom had made generous offers to buy the car once she was done. Many others admired his work, and asked when he’d be taking on new projects.

By the time Bobby announced he was ready to return to Sioux Falls, Dean had six other restorations lined up, and he’d turned a tidy profit on the Chevelle. He’d hired two new mechanics to take on their regular repair work and help him out on the restorations when needed. The shop’s computers had been upgraded, their inventory system overhauled, and they had a professionally-designed customer service website in addition to Dean’s restoration blog.

The entire operation was doing better than Dean ever dreamed. The day Bobby left with promises to come back and visit real soon, Dean finally, truly believed that he could do this.

 

Five years later, right after Sam starts his sophomore year at KU, Dean settles back in his creaky old office chair and smiles, doing a little daydreaming of his own about the projects he can take on now that he’ll have a little extra money at the end of every month.

 

The stage has thus been set for the unmaking of Dean Winchester.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dean's secret Tumblr account becomes common knowledge, to his chagrin and general discomfiture.

Life’s great for the Winchester boys. Bobby comes down to visit a few times a year, and Sam’s even talked Dean into going camping with him a few times over the summers, the granola-eating freak. But school’s back in session, and his gigantor brother’s course load barely leaves him time to eat and sleep, let alone hang out with his gorgeous new girlfriend. Dean often finds himself working late into the night on his newest project, a 1961 Corvette that he hopes to double his investment on.

After weeks of only seeing Sam in passing, either in fully-caffeinated study binge mode, or trudging up to his room like a zombie to crash out for a few hours, they finally find themselves in the same place at the same time with nothing to do between them. It’s a startling novelty, so they decide to order a pizza and catch up. Dean hands him a beer with one hand, and the lien release certificate for the garage with the other. Sam’s lawyer-in-training brain digests the document in a heartbeat, and replies with a customarily articulate and encompassing, “Dude!”

Dean just grins at him. “Yep. It’s all ours now.”

“We have to celebrate, Dean!”

“Whaddya call this? Pizza and beer is celebratory food.”

“No, for real, Dean. Like, get Bobby down, invite everyone we know, and throw a party at the shop.”

Dean shrugs and stuffs another half-slice of pizza in his mouth. “It’s just a piece of paper, Sammy. It doesn’t really change anything.”

“No way. You’re not getting out of this. You made this happen, Dean. It’s not the paper we need to celebrate. It’s you, taking the shop and making it your own. Taking it to the next level and kicking it in the ass.”

Dean can’t even look at Sam for a minute, and studies the label on his beer bottle until he can get his emotions under control. He usually does everything in his power to avoid taking any credit for his own success. His father built the business. All Dean did was keep it alive.

Sam, however, applies credit where it's due. “That’s it. Next Friday. At the garage. I’ll take care of the details.”

Dean cuts him off. “You don’t have time to worry about this shit. You got school and Jess, and you’re barely getting through the week as it is.”

“Shut up, Dean. I’m throwing you a party and that’s final.”

“Fine. Whatever. Just don’t waste too much time on it.”

“Man, I’m getting a keg of beer from Ellen and one of those six-foot-long sandwiches from the deli across from the garage. Consider the planning stage complete. I’ll just throw a post on the blog about it, format an invitation to go out to the regular customer mailing list, and maybe order a cake.”

“Pie, Sammy. Get a pie.”

“Sure, Dean. I’ll get you a pie, too.”

Dean grumbles and grouses, but he’s already caved in to his brother’s demand for a little fun. “You do the email. Use your fancy lawyer talk to convince people to show up. I’ll take care of the blog. Those are my people. I’ll just announce free beer, and half our followers’ll probably show up.”

Sam chokes on a gulp of his own beer. “Then maybe don’t mention the beer on Tumblr. I don’t know if a keg will stretch quite that far. How many followers do we have now, anyway?”

“I haven’t got a fucking clue. I don’t really pay attention to it much, other than to update our current projects.”

“Wait, so you don’t follow anyone? I thought you had a lot of contacts you kept in touch with?”

“I guess, but it’s not like I actually read many of their posts. I don’t really have time to sit on my ass and look at pictures of cats and keep up with the latest memes.”

Sam laughs. “Well at least you know what a meme is now.”

“Fuck you, bitch.”

“Shut up, jerk. If you know what’s showing up on your dash, you’re at least spending enough time there to have a general idea of what the people you follow are posting. I’m just surprised it’s not all car-related stuff.”

“I try to follow customers, too. If they’re interested enough to keep up with my work, the least I can do is follow them back, right? It’s just polite.”

Dean could appreciate the simple joy of gaining a new follower. Every one of his had brought him encouragement and a sense of satisfaction when he’d first stuck his toe in the shallow end of the internet. Just to know someone out there cared enough to subscribe to his rambling and often overly-technical blog posts had given him a huge confidence boost in those early months. A click here and there to return the favor is the least he can do to pay it forward.

“Well, let’s see what we’re getting ourselves into, then.”

Sam grabs Dean’s laptop off the coffee table, and pulls up Tumblr. It only takes one damn click to uncover the dirty little secret Dean managed to keep hidden for years. Stupid fucking login screen asking which of his two accounts Sam wanted to log in to had to go and ruin his fun. In addition to the WinchesterAuto account they set up years ago, his secret online identity pops up in the little pulldown box.

“Uh, Dean? What’s with the Impala67 account? You go and start an aesthetics blog or something?”

“Oh, fuck, no.” Dean lunges across the table, nearly knocking Sam’s beer over onto the keyboard, which in retrospect would’ve probably been the smarter move rather than trying to save his laptop from Death by El Sol.

Sam snatches the computer out of the line of fire. “Now that I know your user name, I’d just log on from my computer, Dean. You can’t stop this, so you might as well chill.” He doesn’t even need to look at his brother to know he’s won.

Dean slowly sinks back into his seat, clutching the salvaged beer and frantically trying to figure a way out of this. “You still need my password to log in.”

“Have you ever used a password other than ScruffyNerfHerder?”

He can feel his face pinching up, but is powerless to stop it. He's not even sure he _wants_ to stop it anymore. “Sometimes they make you use a number, too.”

Sam shakes his head sadly and sighs. “What the fuck did they teach you guys about online security in those classes you took?” He punches in ScruffyNerfHerder1, and watches the little pinwheel spin as his brother’s clandestine Tumblr page loads.

Dean rests his forehead in his hands and grumbles something about not factoring nosy brothers into his security measures.

“This won’t scar me for life, will it?” Sam finally thinks to ask as the first posts are loading. His own question is answered when the first image he sees is a close-up photograph of a bumblebee. He feels safe enough to keep scrolling, fascinated by the odd diversity of the posts. “Dude, you only follow like twelve blogs here. What’s up with that?”

“I don’t know, man, but I follow everybody back on the shop blog. There’s no way I can keep up with all of them. I set up the other account to follow a few that I actually liked looking at. I don’t really post anything there, but when I’m having a bad day, sometimes logging on for a few minutes gives me a chance to breathe.”

Sam stops scrolling and really looks at his brother. “That might be the most mature thing I’ve ever heard out of you Dean. Seriously, that’s actually kind of awesome.”

Dean gets up and briefly considers hiding in the fridge until his brother takes pity on him and just goes away, but settles on just pulling out another beer. If Sam is set on picking apart his last-resort relaxation technique, he's gonna need it. Rather than sitting back down, he stands behind Sam to see the newest posts over his shoulder.

Most of the blogs he follows post cute animals or zen landscapes or silly humor, or a mixture of all three. Some of the posts are poetry, or little musings on the whimsy of daily life, or local events. His friend Charlie’s posts are mostly about their shared geeky interests, and Sam snorts as he skims a long rant about how book-Hermione was more awesome than movie-Hermione. But a few posts are the kinds of pictures he’s not sure Sam would believe he’d have any interest in at all.

And yup, there it is, bingo. Sam stops scrolling. His eyes bug just a wee bit out of his head. Neither brother says anything for a few long moments. Despite Sam’s sudden fixation on the black and white photo with a simple few words beneath it, no reaction seems forthcoming.

Dean risks a glance at his brother, and it’s like he can see the beads on Sam’s internal abacus sliding frantically to come up with another logical solution to this strange equation. He considers all the possible theories Sam might ponder and then dismiss as to why Dean would choose to specifically follow a blog that posted intimate photos of two men in a state of obvious undress, regardless of how objectively attractive the men might be or how professionally composed the shot was. The few sentences below the photo, which express a longing for that sort of connection between two people, and the blogger’s loss of faith that he’d ever find someone to share that sort of profound bond with, don’t do much to change the math Sam has to work with.

Sam only stares for a few more seconds before hesitantly continuing on without comment. He flies past a photoset of cats sitting in unlikely places, a youtube video of a Zeppelin cover band concert, and a series of outtake shots from the upcoming episode of Dr. Sexy before stalling out at a text post by the same blogger who posted the photo that put the brakes on his scrolling before. Sam just reads for a minute without saying anything. When he gets to the end of the post, he mutters the blogger’s url.

“Huh. Human_Bee-ing. Cute.”

“That’s all you gotta say on the subject? You think his name’s cute?”

“So you know it’s a him, then?” Sam gives up scrolling for more of Human_Bee-ing’s posts and clicks straight through to his blog. “Has he posted a selfie or something?”

Dean squirms a little but his voice holds steady. “Not of his face.”

“Oh, ew, Dean.”

“What the fuck, Sam? And you accuse me of having a filthy mind. No, he posted some pictures with his hands in the shot, pointing out the queen bee in one of his hives. Definitely man hands.”

“Okay, I’ll bite then. Why do you follow a beekeeper dude who posts a lot of homoerotica and well-articulated essays on love and equality regardless of gender?”

“He follows the Winchester Auto blog, likes most of my posts, even the ones that are just me complaining about not being able to find parts for a project, and reblogs some of the more artistic shots we do of the finished cars. So I checked out his blog, and apparently he’s a local guy. He posts a lot of photos he takes around town. Even one of our shop during the classic car show we had last summer. What can I say, he seems like a cool dude.”

Sam finally turns away from the laptop, twisting around in his chair to stare up at Dean behind him. “But you have no idea who he is in real life?”

“Nope.”

Sam starts to say something, but closes his mouth and narrows his eyes, considering his next words carefully. “But you’d like to know who he is in real life?”

Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out real slow while studying the ruffly little half-curtain in the window over the kitchen sink. “How do you want me to answer that?”

Sam waits for Dean to meet his eyes, and replies with the most neutral and understanding face he can muster, “Honestly.”

Dean holds his gaze. “You want honesty here? Then yeah, I’d like to know him in real life. You got a problem with that?”

“None at all, Dean. And while we’re having confession time here, you should also know how not-surprised I am about it.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I know you’re attracted to guys, too. I don’t know why you thought you had to keep it a secret. No one we know’s gonna judge you for it. We all just want you to be happy, no matter where you happen to find that happiness. You deserve it, man.”

“Huh. You sound like you’ve been spending too much time with Garth again.”

“He’s in two of my classes, and we just finished a group project for our semiotics seminar. He’s been kinda hard to avoid.”

“Just as long as he doesn’t make you one of those creepy sock puppets.”

“Yeah, I think one Mr. Fizzles is enough for any college campus to deal with.”

They share a laugh that doesn’t quite break the tension, but it gets Dean to sit back at the table again.

“So you really don’t have a problem with me being… probably… not straight?”

Sam shakes his head and smirks. “Dean, one of my earliest memories is watching Star Wars with you.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So you told me someday you were gonna marry Han Solo.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. Huh. That was kinda my first clue.”

“Well, what do you know about that.”

 

Thus ended step one of the unmaking of Dean Winchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also find me on Tumblr at http://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/ where I mostly flail about Supernatural.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we learn the true extent of Dean's involvement with his Tumblr Bumblebee.

Dean’s grateful when Sam finally stops dicking around in his personal business and logs on to their official company blog to post about the party. He’s shocked to see that his follower count has gone through the roof in the last few months.

Sam doesn’t have any trouble believing the figures. “One of your cars sold at Barret-Jackson, Dean. Of course people are gonna take notice after that. They talked about you and your work for like ten whole minutes on tv.”

“I guess we shouldn’t post an open invitation, then. Maybe put up some pictures of the party and a thank you to the customers the day after.”

With that settled, Dean lets Sam draft the email to their regular customer mailing list, and voila, instant party. He hits send and yawns so wide that Dean’s tempted to shove a pizza crust in there while he’s got a chance. He resists, though. Sam hasn’t been too big of an ass about, well, everything. Not only could he tease Dean about his secret Tumblr addiction, the whole conversation about his apparent sexuality could’ve taken a very different turn. Dean decides he deserves a prank-free evening as reward.

“Go get some sleep, Sammy. I’ll clean up in here.”

“Sure, Dean. Thanks. And congrats. You earned this, man.” He slaps his hand against the financial paperwork he’d stuck to the fridge with a couple of magnets like it’s a kindergartner’s prized art project, and then heads upstairs to crash.

 

Dean tidies the kitchen at top speed, and as soon as he hears the door to Sam’s room click shut, he’s logging back in to his personal Tumblr. He’d been grateful when Charlie introduced him to the glory that is xkit, and he’s equally grateful Sam’s completely clueless about the program. He spent all that time looking at the new posts in Dean’s feed, but he didn’t bother to examine the insanely long list of bookmarked posts in his sidebar. He only hopes the moose will respect his privacy and stay the hell out of his blog now that his initial curiosity’s been satisfied.

Dean’s bookmarks are precious to him. They are all the evidence he has of the longest relationship he’s ever sustained in his entire life, and sadly, he’s the only one who knows they exist.

He’s been following Human_Bee-ing for nearly two years, but it took him months of reading his blog to work up the courage to respond to any of the man’s posts, even anonymously.

Then there were the Dark Days, so named because the blogger Dean now refers to as Bumblebee in their online exchanges turned off anon in his ask box for three whole weeks after being bombarded with hate mail about a post he made supporting a LGBTQA+ rights rally. The only thing that kept him going during that time were the occasional short text posts Dean knew were addressed to him.

Since he’s feeling a little celebratory, a little sentimental, and a lot relieved by how well Sam accepted his less-than-straightness (and what the fuck, he still can’t even call himself bisexual in his own head yet), he decides to click on that very first bookmark.

 

 **Anon asked:** First of all, I really appreciate your blog. You have no idea how much it’s helped me personally. And second, I agree with you. Love’s hard enough to find in this world. If I happened to find it with a guy, no way in hell I’d let it go because the state thinks it’s not worth a marriage license.

 **Human_Bee-ing replied:** Oh, my. Thank you for your kind words. I do wish you luck in finding true love. It is the most difficult and elusive connection two people can establish. I believe it is the purest expression of divinity on Earth. For anyone to put it asunder, especially in the name of religion, is nearing blasphemy. Thank you again, dearest nonny. You have earned a place in my heart. <3

 

It looks so innocent now, after the hundreds of tiny conversations like this they’ve shared over the intervening year. It was only their second exchange that earned Dean his nickname, and the third that earned the other blogger his.

 

 **Anon asked:** Hey, you might not remember me, but this is your marriage anon from yesterday. You don’t have to reply, or post this, if you don’t want. But I do want you to know how much your words meant to me. I don’t know what it is, but you just have a way of saying things, and I just don’t know. It all makes sense, you know? I just wanted to thank you again.

 **Human_Bee-ing replied:** You’re welcome. But marriage anon? I think this all might be a little sudden. How about Fiance Anon, at least until our relationship is on more solid footing than two anonymous exchanges on tumblr? *presents you with the traditional tumblr engagement ring: a donut with pink frosting and rainbow sprinkles*

 

Dean still hasn’t told anyone why he’d gone on a mad donut bender that evening. He stopped at three separate Gas-n-Sips before he found one that still had a pink frosted donut in stock that late in the day. He never even told Bumblebee about it. Not even when he wrote back later that night to accept the jokingly offered proposal, but only if he could call him Bumblebee. As far as Dean is concerned, that had been the official beginning of their relationship, whether or not they would ever meet in real life.

He scrolls through his bookmarks until he finds the dreaded Dark Days posts.

During those terrible weeks, every day or two, a short text post would pop up hashtagged Fiance Anon. It was never anything huge, but it was enough to relieve Dean’s worry that his Bumblebee had forgotten him.

 

_I miss you #Fiance Anon._

 

_I hope you’re having a good day today, #Fiance Anon._

 

_I wish we could talk again._

 

That was the message that almost broke his resolve. He bit his nails for two whole days, wondering if he should give in and send Bumblebee a message from his actual account. But without the anonymity, would Bumblebee still be interested in their little game?

The decision to out himself to his online crush-- and yes, it was definitely growing into a full-blown crush-- was made moot when Bumblebee announced he was turning the anon back on, because regardless of the hate he might receive, he wanted his blog to be a safe place for people to share their own stories without fear. The last line of the post was the clincher:

 

_And a life spent apart from my beloved #Fiance Anon is a sad and dreary thing, indeed._

 

Not ten minutes after it posted, Bumblebee had three long and relieved messages from his Fiance, the last ending with _don’t you ever do that again. (((hugs)))_

Reading all those old posts, even a year later, still brings a smile to his face. They’d spent so much time dancing around each other, getting to know each other without really sharing any sort of identifying information about themselves, short of what Dean had learned about Bumblebee through his blog, which was admittedly not a lot.

There’d been other times over the last year where he’d been tempted to send a real message. Late last spring, about four days went by without any new posts from Bumblebee at all. Once again, Dean considered reaching out with an ask under his real name, but then Bumblebee was back with a vengeance. Apparently his internet connection had been unreliable for a few days, but everything was now back to normal. He replied to a few of his Fiance Anon asks, but thankfully restrained himself from posting them all.

The unpublished posts, if Dean were asked their contents under threat of grievous bodily harm, were possibly a little bit concerned for Bumblebee’s well-being, and definitely not borderline frantic with dread. Nope. Definitely not.

Dean breaks through his haze of happy nostalgia long enough to remember the new post he’d seen over Sam’s shoulder. He finds it quickly, and rather than waste any more time rereading the caption he’d committed to memory, he opens the ask box, careful to switch the toggle to **Ask anonymously** before typing a single letter.

His first impulse is to make a joke; to wonder out loud if his Bumblebee had forgotten him and their life together, and didn’t _they_ share that profound bond he is looking for, but none of that feels right. He can’t belittle everything they’ve meant to each other over the last year with a mocking comment on a such a heartfelt and melancholy caption.

He finally convinces himself that dammit, he is truly anonymous here. He can say anything he wants, so he settles on something that comes shockingly close to the truth. _Don’t lose faith, little Bumblebee. I long for that sort of closeness, too. Until we find it, I’m content to hold on to you here. You can trust me not to let go. {{{Bee}}} (see, I even used the hug brackets with the little stingers) (From your #Fiance Anon, of course)_

Dean worries at his bottom lip, tugging absently at it while he reads and rereads his ask. It’s probably too much. Anyone who sees it without the full context of their history would likely find it borderline creepy. Dammit. He’s too caught up in the flood of feelings brought on by Sam’s prying and subsequent acceptance, followed too closely by his trip down Bumblebee memory lane. His only excuse is it must be some sort of hormone poisoning, but he dismisses that notion almost immediately.

Even if it’s only online, they do have a real friendship. Or at least some kind of real connection. He’s surprised to find that this man-- a man he wouldn’t be able to recognize in a crowd, whose voice he’s never heard and face he’s never seen-- can make him feel such empathy. The idea that his Bumblebee was at that moment sitting in his own kitchen posting about his feelings of loneliness and inadequacy is too much to bear. It’s shocking, but Dean knows he’ll never be able to get to sleep unless he does _something_ to reassure his Bumblebee.

He sits up straight all of a sudden, resolved that this will either be the message that finally breaks through and makes his Bee stop dancing around him online, or it’ll finally be the one that goes too far beyond their carefully erected boundaries and breaks them apart for good. Either way, something’s gotta shake loose. He hits send.

 

Thus ended step two of the unmaking of Dean Winchester.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sam comes to some startling conclusions.

One of the hardest things Sam’s ever done was resist the urge to poke at Dean’s extensive list of bookmarked posts while his brother looked on over his shoulder. Knowing his brother, if he’d gone to the trouble of installing and learning to use xkit, on top of keeping a secret Tumblr for who knows how long, those posts are probably something extremely private. It takes what seems like forever, but he waits until he’s sure Dean is off the computer before hauling his own laptop out in the privacy of his room, and logging in as Impala67.

His first destination is the blog run by the elusive and mysterious Human_Bee-ing. If Dean convinced himself the guy is local, what’s the harm in checking him out a little bit? Especially since Dean seemed to show an interest in him, or at least in his blog. There’s nothing wrong with being a good brother, and making sure the guy his brother is a little too defensive of isn’t secretly a whackjob. That’s all. Brotherly duty.

For a Tumblr blog, the guy doesn’t post an awful lot. Two or three original posts a day, typically, on whatever captured his interest at the moment, interspersed with musings on life and love and happiness. There’s a few reblogged posts, like the photo he’d seen earlier, often with a caption or his commentary added in the tags. But then there are the reply posts.

He seems to have a few regular correspondents, some of whom he’s given nicknames. There’s the #Lost Girl Anon who writes once or twice a week just to assure him she's still out there, still surviving. There’s one called #Trickster Anon, who sends random knock knock jokes and riddles. The most interesting conversations of all, though, are the ones he shares with #Fiance Anon.

At first, Sam thinks it must be an actual real-life fiance, but it becomes clear after the first few posts that it really is just an anonymous online friend-- but one he shares a deep rapport with. A few of the posts nearly break his heart, they’re so touching and filled with unspoken yearning. He feels like a voyeur reading them.

He scrolls for maybe half an hour, and then finally closes Human_Bee-ing’s blog and returns to Dean’s dashboard. At the very least he’s come away convinced his brother’s little online obsession with the man’s blog is probably harmless. The guy seems like a genuinely good, if slightly odd person.

He then turns his attention back to the mystery bookmarks. He decides to start with the oldest ones first, and is prepared to close out of the window immediately just in case Dean’s secretly been bookmarking a lot of gay porn or something. With his face half-hidden behind one hand, he clicks the link.

His hand falls limply to his lap, and he realizes exactly what he’s reading. He has to double-check the date stamp on the oldest post, because he almost can’t believe it, but no. It’s been going on for fourteen months.

He reads through the first few months of posts, and spots half a dozen sure signs that the #Fiance Anon, the faceless grey dot that’s been essentially courting this bee guy for well over a year, is absolutely and unequivocally, without a doubt, his brother. And he’s floored.

The evidence is overwhelming, from the posts about having the flu that line up with when Dean was laid up for a week last year, to a mention of the anon’s brother having some sort of problem with one of his professors. Sam spent three whole days trying to rearrange his schedule so he could drop the class, but to no avail, and he spent most of those three days complaining to Dean that he felt like the professor was either hitting on him or planning to eat him for dinner, he wasn't sure which.

It was all there, necessarily vague to maintain anonymity, but what few details the posts contained may as well have been neon arrows pointing back to Dean. There were even a few posts about #Fiance Anon being jealous of a friend because she went to ComicCon last summer when he couldn’t take the time off work to go with her. Sam recalls all too well Dean’s week of grouchy pouting while Charlie was in San Diego.

As soon as it hits him, Sam feels a little dirty, like he’s been hiding in the bushes watching them make out on the front porch. He clicks back over to the dashboard and hopes those photos of the dumb cats squished into tiny boxes are still near the top of the page, because damn. He could use a good laugh. He needs to not think about this anymore.

He doesn’t even wait for the page to finish loading before deciding his best course of action is to log out and try to get some sleep.

A lot of good that does him, because Friday morning he’s still running to make it to class on time after a night spent tossing and turning. He can’t help wondering if it’s even possible to find this mystery of a man in real life from the few scraps he gleaned from his blog. As he takes his seat in his first lecture of the day, he decides that, for Dean, he’s sure as hell going to try.

 

Thus ended step three of the unmaking of Dean Winchester. (I started ending chapters with this line because who doesn’t love gratuitous use of the word Thus? Am I right?)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dean comes to the conclusion that he must be cursed, and Sam learns about bees.

For Dean, Friday morning starts out less strained than it does for Sam. At least he gets to sit down for a proper breakfast and a quick check to see if Bumblebee got his message. He’s a little disappointed when there’s no reply to his ask, but there _is_ a new post about a pumpkin patch Bumblebee spotted on his way in to work that morning. Dean worries for a few minutes that his days as Fiance Anon are well and truly over, and he loses his appetite.

Of course he shouldn’t have sent such a clingy, creepy message. How stupid could he be? Bumblebee’s probably sitting at work wondering if he should turn his anon off again until the overly-attached Fiance Anon gets the message that he crossed a line.

Dean slams the laptop shut, and shoves his chair back so hard it scrapes across the floor with a grinding sound. He barely stops himself from flinging his cereal bowl into the sink, but settles for viciously scrubbing it clean and setting it in the dish rack to dry. He does throw the spoon. It clatters around the sink, settling in the suds under the running water, and Dean just stares at it. Once again, he’s ruined a good thing by getting too close to it. It’s what he does best. The only things in his life he knows he hasn’t screwed up are the garage and Sam. And he’s not entirely sure about Sam yet.

He finally shakes off the worst of his anger, rinses off the spoon, and sets it next to the bowl to dry. He wishes he’d shown that much restraint last night before sending that ask and probably scaring off one of the kindest people he’s ever had the pleasure of knowing. If you could really say he _knew_ Bumblebee. Hell, he doesn’t even know the man’s real name. Maybe everything he’s thought about their anonymous friendship has been a lie, or a joke. It only makes sense. He’s taken what Bumblebee probably thought of as an occasional diversion and, what? Attached _feelings_ to it. Maybe even considered it as a strange kind of relationship, like maybe he would someday drop the anon part of the Fiance Anon. And once again, that was his own damned fault.

The same thing happened with Cassie, and to a lesser extent with Lisa. It only figures he should be doomed to live the same failed relationship out over and over for the rest of his life. He falls in love, then makes promises his girlfriends (and now Bumblebee) aren’t ready for, and frightens the other person off. Cassie even flat-out told him she thought he was wasn’t serious about wanting something more out of their relationship. It’s likely Bumblebee feels the same; that Dean’s only continued to send him messages as some sort of half-hearted diversion. Nothing serious.

Dean wonders if he’s been cursed. Maybe he’s doomed to never be seen as anything more than an attractive but temporary diversion. He’s fine to take home for a night or two, but anything more than that has almost always proven beyond his reach. And it hurts. But he can’t control what other people do, so he pulls himself together and does what he always does at times like these.

It’s only a short drive to work, but he makes the most of it, screaming along to Motorhead the whole way. He’s got a whole morning to spend elbows-deep in a soon-to-be-gorgeous old Corvette. He spends the rest of the morning focused on the one thing he’s guaranteed not to fail at.

 

After rushing through his commute at full throttle, Sam spends the remainder of his morning half listening to his government professor droning on about the loopholes in constitutional limitations of presidential power. He makes a good show of taking notes, but actually spends the entire lecture jotting down everything he knows about Human_Bee-ing. If he’s going to make a serious attempt to find the guy, he should at least be able to assemble a basic general profile of him from the sorts of things he posts on his blog.

First things first. He’s interested in bees. From what Dean said, he might even keep his own hives. Sam thinks that’s a pretty distinctive hobby, and doodles a few messy little stars by the word BEES at the top of his paper. Beekeeping isn’t something that ever hit Sam’s radar as a popular pastime, so even that bit of information might be enough to track him down if he lives locally.

The pictures he posts from around town are mostly of local events, like the Farmer’s Market and various art shows and community festivals. A few are of random gardens, parks, businesses, and even the university buildings at different times of day. It’s possible he lives or works close by, or just likes to walk around this part of town. It’s not a particularly specific clue to work with, but he adds the locations he can recall to his list anyway.

He hesitates before writing anything else. A guy posting a picture of two men together doesn’t necessarily prove he’s gay. The caption below the picture was his addition to the post, and it was a rather general message about finding love and a connection with another person, as was demonstrated in the picture. Even the longer post about equal rights that Sam read still didn’t say anything like, “I, as a bisexual man,” or anything that specific. He could just be interested in the subject because he’s a decent human being, or maybe he has a friend or family member who’s being treated unfairly and this is his way of showing support. Either way, Sam adds LGBTQA+ to his list.

He has twenty minutes to kill before his second class starts, and it’s only a five minute walk, so he settles down on a bench, pulls out his phone, and tries a few easy google searches, starting with _beekeeper Lawrence Kansas_. The very first listing is for a local beekeeper’s association, so maybe it isn’t such an unusual hobby after all.

Sam feels a little disheartened, and he isn’t even sure why. He’s only known this guy existed for less than a day, but Dean’s been talking with him for _over a year_. And talking about things Dean would probably rather fling himself out of an airplane than admit to, even to his closest friends. This man, this stranger on the internet, is clearly something special to have unlocked the softer side of Dean Winchester. If nothing else, Sam’s determined to find some way to thank him, even if his brother never gets up the nerve to do it himself.

Seeing as how he’s not going to get an instant result on Human_Bee-ing’s identity, he shoves his phone back in his pocket, hefts his backpack over his shoulder, and heads off early to his next class. If he’s going to brood about his lack of instant success, he might as well do it in a dreary empty lecture hall as out in the early autumn sunshine. It actually seems more fitting.

Sam's advisor recommended taking a course on semiotics as one of his electives, and he’s glad he took that advice. It’s a fascinating class, taking apart language and symbols to find the deeper meaning behind them. The TA for the class, after learning Sam intends to study law after graduating, joked that a good lawyer should know how to manipulate his words enough to bury his true meaning entirely, and agreed semiotics was an excellent choice for him. Since then, Sam’s developed a sort of loose, wave-hello-across-the-dining-hall kind of friendship with the man.

He barges into the classroom fifteen minutes early, expecting it to be empty, only to find Castiel, the TA, sitting at his desk in the corner puzzling over something on his computer. It’s enough of a surprise to pull Sam out of his own tangled thoughts.

“Oh, hey Castiel. Sorry, I hope I’m not interrupting you or anything. I didn’t know anyone would be in here yet.”

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel replies, hesitating with one hand ready to shut his laptop, looking unsure about whether he should or not. He clears his throat, but it doesn’t do too much to relieve the deep and gravelly tone that always makes Sam feel like offering the man a cough drop. “No, it’s fine. I’m just trying to catch up on some personal correspondence while I have a free minute.”

Sam chuckles. “Well, it’s good to know grad students actually have free minutes once in a while.”

“Yes, contrary to popular belief, we occasionally even find time to eat and sleep.” Castiel’s shoulders relax, and he sits back in his chair.

Sam grins at him. ”Don’t mind me, then. I just needed to borrow a desk to do a little research before class.” He pulls his laptop out, ready to delve further into the mysterious world of local beekeepers.

Castiel perks up at the mention of research. “Are you working on something for class? Because it’s sort of in my job description to help students with the course material.”

“Oh no,” Sam says absently, pulling up page after page of search results. “I’m just looking up something about bees.”

There’s a quiet moment of pause, and Castiel replies, “Bees?”

Sam’s still got his nose buried in his laptop, and misses the curious head tilt Castiel gives him. “Yeah. My brother mentioned something about beekeepers last night, so I’m looking into it.”

Another pause. “Well, I don’t mean to intrude on your search, but I am more than a little acquainted with bees, myself. I have several hives out by the orchards north of town. If you have any questions, I might be able to help you answer them.”

Sam freezes, fingers poised over the keyboard, suddenly wondering if his search has been necessary at all. He shakes off the sudden uneasiness, and smiles up at his friend. He has two choices: either decline any help and plow on alone, with the notion lingering in the back of his mind that Castiel could possibly be Human_Bee-ing, or accept it and come up with some believable reason his brother was talking about beekeeping without bringing up uncomfortable Tumblr relationships. All of this rolls through his mind while he composes his face to look back up at Castiel.

“Uh, yeah. That would be great, thanks.” Sam hopes his pasted-on smile looks less pained than it feels, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t.

Castiel, because he’s a nice guy, just nods and smiles, crossing his arms over the dark blue buttondown he’s wearing, turning in his chair toward Sam, and stretching out his legs, having given up on his own work to help Sam. “What would you like to know?”

Sam searches his memory for something, _anything_ , that doesn’t sound too idiotic. “Well, uh, my brother, he likes to cook. Bake, mostly. He likes pie.”

Castiel nods, looking a little confused as to what this has to do with bees.

Sam hurries on. “I read an article last week about colony collapse, and there was a bit in there about supporting beekeepers. So I asked Dean, that’s my brother, if he’d want me to look into local honey. You know, for cooking with. Since he does that. Cook, I mean.”

Castiel still seems a little bemused by Sam’s babbling, but is happy to help. “Using local honey benefits both the bee population, as well as your own health. It’s been theorized that eating honey produced in your area can help build immunity to airborne toxins and reduce allergic reactions.”

Sam isn’t exactly sure how to reply. He did read that article, and recalls something along the lines of what Castiel’s telling him, but he has no idea where to go from there. Luckily, Castiel saves him.

“Are you looking for someone that sells honey, then? Because I know several vendors who produce a high quality range of honeys.” He leans over and pushes a few keys on his computer. “I’d be happy to recommend some to you.”

“Oh!” Sam feels like he really should’ve declined the offer of help at this point. It would’ve been far less embarrassing to research this on his own. “Uh, yeah. I guess so. But don’t you make your own honey, too?”

Castiel smiles. “Yes, I do, but I don’t normally sell it. It’s more for my own use, and whatever extra I have I usually give to friends.”

“I get it. It’s probably a lot of work. You wouldn’t consider selling me a jar, would you?”

“I wouldn’t sell it to you, but you said your brother bakes pie?”

Sam nods.

“Well, I think we might be able to work out a trade. I’ll give you a jar of honey in exchange for a slice of the first pie he makes with it.”

Sam laughs again. “You obviously don’t know Dean, then. I promise to do my best, but it’s next to impossible to separate my brother from his pie.”

A grin breaks out on Castiel’s face, but there's an intensity in his eyes as he says, “I am sure that if we work together, we can accomplish great things, Sam.”

He’s just about to ask what Castiel meant by that, when the door opens and Professor Moseley walks in, followed by a steady stream of students. He puzzles over Castiel’s words throughout the class, sure there was some deeper meaning to them, but eventually chalks that itchy notion up to the fact he’s sitting in a semiotics lecture, the entire point of which is to deconstruct language and parse out the hidden meanings behind the words, and lets it go.

After class, Castiel waves him over to his desk as he’s walking out the door. “I’ll bring a jar for you on Monday, if that will be satisfactory.”

“Yeah, Castiel, thanks. I appreciate it. I’m sure Dean will, too.”

“And so will I. I’m already looking forward to my payment.” He gives Sam a goofy smile. “Since we were interrupted earlier, was there anything else you wanted to know about bees? I see you were making some sort of notes?” He gestures toward the notebook Sam hadn’t had a chance to put back in his backpack, with the paper headlined **BEES** sticking out an inch at the top.

“Well, to be honest, no. I think your honey will about cover it, for now.”

Castiel smirks at what must be some private joke that Sam doesn’t understand. “Okay. I’ll see you Monday, then.”

Sam is now the last one left in the hall, aside from Castiel. It's lunchtime, but Castiel still sits at his desk, in almost the exact position he’d been in when Sam first arrived, hunched over his laptop with his eyebrows pinched and a slight frown pulling down one corner of his mouth. Sam can’t tell if he looks confused, concerned, or frustrated. He hesitates in the doorway, and asks if Castiel is okay. It would've felt weird not to ask, after Castiel had been so helpful and accommodating with him.

“It’s just a personal matter I’m trying to decide how best to deal with,” he replies. “It’s nothing of concern, but I appreciate yours anyway, Sam. Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble,” Sam says with a shrug. “You helped me out, so, you know, if you ever need anything, I’d be glad to help if I can.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. For now, I think I’ll have to settle for looking forward to an excellent piece of pie.”

Sam laughs, and thanks Castiel once more before heading out to meet his girlfriend, Jessica, for lunch.

 

Thus ended what we’ll call step three and a half of the unmaking of Dean Winchester.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dean is confronted by Charlie, the Reigning Queen of Sensibility.

Dean works straight through lunch, even when his employees take their breaks and ask him if they can bring him back something from the deli. He waves them all off. His appetite still hasn’t returned, and if he stops to eat, he might accidentally check his Tumblr out of habit. He’s not quite ready to face round two of the rejection hit parade yet.

By two o’clock, he’s tightening the final bolt into the pristinely reconstructed transmission, and his stomach’s growling. He’s been in a zone all day, and finally surfaces to find the rest of his crew hard at work on a brake job, a radiator flush, and a complicated repair to a malfunctioning central computer system. He checks in with each of them to see how their days are going. If he can just find a way to keep himself out of his office for a bit, he can forestall the inevitable end to both his improved mood and his appetite in case his Bumblebee hasn’t replied yet.

He gallantly offers to help Jo remove the front wheel of the Jeep she’s doing the brake job on, and laughs at the murderous look she shoots his way.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than bug me, Winchester?”

Dean’s stomach growls again, and Jo tries to silence it with a punch. “Hey, you can’t punch your boss. It’s in the rules.”

She holds out the torque wrench, aiming it at Dean like a gun, and jerks the tip off to the side, dismissing him. He holds up his hands in surrender and lets her get back to work.

In the next bay over, Lee’s just slamming the hood down on the car he’d been working on. He nods to Dean before heading out to the office to complete the paperwork on the repairs he made. His daughter, Krissy, has been running their front desk since she graduated last June. Dean and Lee both tried to convince her to go to college, explore the world a little bit, but no. She’s grown up wanting to follow in her dad’s footsteps. She intends to get the certifications she needs to work in the shop someday, but in the meantime, she’s proven herself to be the best office manager they’ve ever had. She has a way with customers, charming even the grumpiest complainers, and still not taking shit from anyone.

In the last service bay, their newest employee, Cole, is leaning carefully over the computer that controls all the batteries in one of those ridiculous hybrid cars. Dean doesn’t want to interrupt his work, but takes a moment to say a silent prayer of thanks to his brother and Bobby for talking him into expanding the business to restorations all those years ago. If he hadn’t, _he’d_ be the one spending his days working on cars that don’t even have real engines in them. He takes one contented glance back at the Corvette at the other end of the shop, and steps into the office as his stomach growls yet again.

Krissy’s on the phone, telling the owner of the car her dad fixed that it’s ready to be picked up. Lee’s already headed outside to swap the finished car out for the next one in line for repairs. Dean stops to wash his hands in the small kitchenette that serves as their break room, and without any other means to distract himself, heads into his small office to make sure there’s nothing pressing that needs to be taken care of before the weekend.

He’s surprised but secretly delighted to find Charlie sitting in his chair, even though she looks like an angry queen about to deliver a death sentence to an unlucky court jester. He smiles at her, and takes an exaggerated little bow with a twirl of his hand. “What displeases your royal highness this afternoon?”

Charlie’s not in the mood for games. “Can it, handmaiden. You have to earn your way back into my good graces.” She points at Dean’s computer monitor, where she’s been updating the shop’s website for him. “So you’re throwing a party, and you didn’t tell me about it?”

Dean stands up straight, looking lost. “You’re on the email list. You should’ve gotten an invite, right?”

Her regal demeanor cracks, and she rolls her eyes. “Well, duh. But I mean you _planned_ a whole party without consulting me? How could you?”

“Blame Sam. It all happened in about two minutes last night when I showed him the paperwork.”

Charlie’s eyes light up. “So all this is officially yours now?” She stands up from the chair, takes the two steps separating her from Dean, and kneels down in front of him with a bowed head. “Congratulations, your majesty. I bid thee welcome to the kingdom of landowners.” She looks up at him from beneath her fiery red bangs, and adds, “Does this mean I can’t call you handmaiden anymore?”

Dean laughs, and pulls her to her feet to wrap her in a hug. “Nah. I’ll still defend your honor if you need me to.”

“Hmm, maybe not so much. We should probably work out some sort of treaty between our kingdoms. You know, to keep the minions from getting uppity and rebelling. And to keep the shadow orcs firmly in the shadows.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“So tell me about this party. What do you need me to do. I can be in charge of the tunes.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t think so. No tunes. We’re serving some food and drinks. Just thanking our customers for supporting us all these years.”

“And this was all Sam’s idea?”

“Yeah. He said something about ordering a party sub and snagging a keg of beer from Ellen. Maybe getting a cake.”

Charlie’s eyes go wide. “That doesn’t sound like a celebration fit for a king, Dean. This is your coronation. You have to think bigger.”

Dean’s brow furrows. “I didn’t even want to think little. I only agreed to it at all because Sam would’ve done it with or without my approval. It’s stupid. Nothing’s changed, other than the fact that I don’t have to write a mortgage check every month. It’s really not worth celebrating.”

“Shut up. You know it is.” She scowls at her friend, but takes him by the arm and ushers him into his chair. “You let me take care of everything. I’ll call Sam this afternoon and we’ll work out all the details. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“You saying that automatically makes me worry about everything, you know.”

“Oh, and I brought you lunch.” She plonks a styrofoam takeout box and a bottle of water on his desk, and slumps down on the small, dingy couch that constitutes the only other furniture in the tiny room. “Bon appetit.”

He opens the box and digs in to the sandwich with a satisfied groan. The computer monitor, open to the shop’s newly updated website, taunts him. “Were you done with this?” He waves one hand at the web page.

“Yep. All up to date. All software patches applied. Online scheduling is up and running again. All invoices from last month have been archived. Yadda yadda yadda.”

Dean nods, and hesitates for just a second before navigating over to Tumblr. He resists the temptation to check on his personal account, and logs in to the shop’s site to write an update on the Corvette’s progress. All she needs now is a new paint job and she’s pretty much ready to go.

He pulls up a new post window, but then just stares at the blank white box, his sandwich all but forgotten in his hand.

“Everything all right there, Dean? You miss your nap this afternoon, or something?”

“What?” He peels his attention from the blinking cursor, and suddenly remembers his lunch. He shoves the rest of the sandwich in his mouth, and focuses on Charlie. “No s’all good. ‘Vette needs an update, s’all.”

Charlie’s clearly grossed out by Dean’s table manners, but does her best to grin back at him. “Well, that’s also good news, right? It’s gotta be almost ready to go on the market. Or are you thinking of taking it back to that fancy auction thingy?”

“No, I already have a buyer.” Dean swallows hard and takes a swig out of the water bottle. “I promised delivery by next Thursday. It just needs paint now, and that’s scheduled for Monday. You can swing by and take pictures for the blog on Tuesday, if you have time.”

“Will do, boss.”

Dean turns back to the computer, and types out a quick and rather terse update for his followers. Charlie sits up on the edge of the couch, surprised when he finishes the post and logs out in under two minutes. Dean just sits there, hands still resting on the keyboard, staring at a dog decked out in a pumpkin costume staring back at him from the Tumblr log in screen.

“Dean? What’s up? And don’t lie to me. I can still demote you back to handmaiden.”

He glances back and forth between the website that was the cause of his current problems, and his friend who would do pretty much anything for him, up to and including violating state and federal laws. He knows Charlie would never judge him, and Sammy might have part of the story, but he’d taken Dean’s coming out a lot better than he ever could’ve hoped. Even so, there was no way Dean was ready to confess everything to his brother. Charlie, on the other hand, might be able to talk him back off the ledge he’s unwittingly walked himself out on.

He sighs, resigned to tell her in the most roundabout way possible. There’s still a chance he can get through this without coming off like a total douche in front of his best friend.

He takes another gulp of water, and starts off with, “You know about my other Tumblr account, so at least that part won’t come as a surprise.”  
“Ooh, did Sam find out about your double secret Tumblr identity or something?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not the problem.”

“Did he flip out when he saw you liking one of my gay posts, then?”

“What? No. Of course not. He, uh, wouldn’t be surprised about that, apparently.”

“Apparently? What? Did you have to have a Big Talk with your little brother?”

“Sort of. Can you just shut up for a second, and let me tell you what’s wrong? Otherwise we’re gonna be here until the fucking cows stop coming home because they died of old age.”

Charlie mimes zipping her lips, and folds her hands in her lap, every inch of her primed to pounce, and her full attention focused on Dean. She’s holding herself so deliberately still her small frame is practically vibrating.

“Shit, that’s almost worse than the questions. Can you just sit like a person and listen?”

She relaxes a bit, but Dean still can’t think properly while he’s looking at her. She’s the closest thing he’s ever had to a sister, but he couldn’t even imagine talking about this with his actual brother. The pumpkin-dog staring at him from the computer screen is not helping much either, so he just stares down at his hands in his lap.

“You’re right about Sam finding my other account. He logged in and went through my dashboard.” He points a finger at Charlie and finally looks over at her. “Don’t even think it. No, my dash isn’t full of embarrassing porn, so don’t ask. In fact, yeah. Come over here for a second.”

He logs in as Impala67 and stands up before the posts begin to load, scooting out of the way so Charlie can have the chair. He doesn’t want to see if there’s a reply from his Bumblebee yet. At least, not until after he survives this conversation with Charlie. One disaster at a time. He invites her to look through his blog while he takes her place on the couch.

She spends about ten minutes scrolling away before making a single comment. “You don’t follow a lot of people. And I know you hardly ever post anything. I figured you mostly started this page so you could make snarky comments on all my posts.”

Dean’s grateful he can’t see what she’s reading, even though he hopes she’s exploring everything with the thorough scrutiny she gives to anything presented to her in a computerized format. It would be so much easier if she figures it out on her own. It would save him the humiliation of having to explain it all to her. So he waits. He doesn’t have to wait very long; maybe half a dozen clicks of the mouse.

In a quiet voice, she uncovers the heart of the problem. “Dean? Is this you? You sent all these anons?”

No point in denying it. He’d wanted her to find out, or he wouldn’t have invited her to explore his account. He nods.

“And, is this what Sam found? Is he upset with you?”

Dean sighs. “No, Sam just saw enough on my dash to draw a few conclusions about my, I guess you could say, sexual preferences. And he’s not upset with me.”

“Okay, then what’s got your panties all bunched up? I think this is sweet.” She waves a hand at a set of Fiance Anon bookmarked posts from about six months ago, and luckily for Dean misses him turn pink at the mention of panties. He’s willing to open up and share a little with Charlie, but damn, there are limits.

“Yeah, sweet. Right up until I ruined everything last night.” He buries his face in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. He hears the clicks as Charlie checks the most recent bookmarks.

“There’s nothing bookmarked from last night. Did you send a new anon message to this guy?”

Dean says nothing. He knows she’ll unearth his idiocy soon enough. She navigates back to his dash, double-checking to see if there’s a new post in the last few minutes in reply to Dean’s most recent ask, then clicks over to his outbox to see what sort of catastrophically awful thing he must’ve said to have him so upset.

She reads it. Then clicks back to the dash to look up Human_Bee-ing’s original post the comment referred to, and reads that. Then goes back to read Dean’s ask again. She looks up at him, a little funny around the edges, biting her lip to try to control the dopey grin breaking across her face. “You’re both morons, you know. You didn’t warn me you had an emergency sap transfusion last night before you wrote this.”

“Shut up. Don’t rub it in. I know I screwed up. We’ve been having fun for a long time, and I had to go an fuck it all up.”

“What are you talking about? I think it’s adorable. Young love! Aaah!” She clutches her hands to her chest and stares dreamily at Dean like he’s suddenly morphed into the Disney princess she always accuses him of being deep down, under all the flannel and ground in motor oil.

“But he hasn’t answered yet. And he always answers before he posts anything else. I know he’s seen it.”

“Oh. Oh!” Dean watches the realization hit her. “And you think you scared him off. Got too touchy-feely there for your anonymous relationship. Oh, Dean. Oh.”

“Yeah, can you stop saying that?”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Um. Maybe he just needs some time to come up with an appropriate reply? I mean, you only talk to him on anon. It’s not like he can just reply to you, you know? Whatever he says will go on his main blog, for everyone and their pervy uncles to read. Maybe he’s trying to find a way to word a response that doesn’t feel too, uh, personal?”

“I guess.”

“But you’re still beating yourself up about it because you broke the rules.”

Dean is grateful he doesn’t have to explain this to Charlie. “Yeah.”

They both sit there quietly for a few minutes. Eventually Charlie breaks the silence, tentative though she may sound. “You know, you could always send him a message from your account. One he could reply to privately.”

“And say what? Hi, I’m the asshat you thought was a half-decent guy until I got all stupid and clingy on you last night? And what now, I’m getting even clingier by breaking over a year’s worth of anonymity to complain about why you haven’t responded to my bullshit sentimental crap yet? Yeah, that’ll help.”

“Or you could just send the same stupid ask you sent last night, but from your account. Tell him you’re not a creepy anon. Prove to him you’re real, and that you meant every word of it.”

“Right,” Dean snorts. “Because escalating this into the real world is so much less terrifying. The guy probably thinks I’ve been stalking him for a year, setting him up to, I don’t know. Murder him in his sleep. Who knows what the hell he thinks now? I’m not going to risk making this worse than it already is.”

Charlie crosses her arms, back to stern and queenly. “Fine. But you know, I think he lives around here. There’s a chance you’ve seen him around town.”

“How did you figure that out?”

“I looked at his blog, duh.”

“Huh. Even Sammy didn’t figure that one out. I had to explain it to him.”

“Well, gold star for me, then. But if that’s really the case, then sending him a real message might start a new conversation. Maybe it’s time to grow past this anonymous bullcrap.”

“He didn’t exactly post his name and phone number on his blog, you know. He’s still almost as anonymous as I am.”

“If you give me a few minutes, I can get you his home address and his current location from his cell phone’s GPS.” She waggles her fingers in the air like she’s about to perform a magic trick.

“NO! For fuck's sake, no. Don’t do that. I am not gonna stalk him in real life.”

“No, you save that for the internet. You really need to get over yourself, Dean. I read your conversations. You guys are so into each other it’s sickening. And you let the whole thing play out in front of thousands of people online. You do know that most of these posts are getting reblogged and liked all over the place, right?”

“Yeah, I know. But nobody knows who we are! I’m a little gray dot, and he’s a fucking bumblebee!”

“So, you’re afraid to admit to being the gray dot. I see. But you know what, Dean? Literally nobody else cares. What we do care about is the fact you’re punishing yourself for thinking you deserve a little happiness and comfort in life, to the point you’ve talked yourself out of reaching for it.”

“It’s a little late for that, now, don’tcha think?”

Charlie’d been working herself up into a good froth, but now her face softens into a gentle smile. “It’s never too late, Dean. Just, think about it, please? Don’t throw away a chance at something good.”

She stands up and walks around the desk, kisses Dean on the top of his head, and reaches for her bag. “I’ll be back Tuesday with the camera. But in the meantime, you keep me updated on your mystery bee. Do you want to come hang out with me and Gilda tonight? We might watch a movie. Take your mind off things for a bit.”

“Nah, thanks. I’ll pass. I just want to be alone.”

“And brood, yeah. That’s what worries me, Dean.”

“Not brood. Think. I need to think in peace.”

She eyes him dubiously, but reaches for the door. “Don’t think yourself into a hole, now. I expect to hear from you tomorrow with the results of all this thinking.”

“Yes, your highness.”

She smiles and gives him the royal wave before showing herself out and shutting the door behind her, leaving Dean alone with more to think about than ever before.

 

Thus ended what likely amounts to step four and five eighths of the unmaking of Dean Winchester.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sam conspires with Jess, and Dean mopes.

Sam and Jess spend the first half of their lunch together elaborating on the plans for Dean’s party. Jess is almost as indignant as Charlie about the Winchesters’ complete lack of event hosting skills, and constructs a list of food and decorations she volunteers to help arrange. After that’s done, they spend a leisurely bit of time catching up on their own lives before Sam lets it slip about his little obsession with his brother’s online crush.

“So, who is this mystery crush object? Anyone I know?”

“Nah. Well, maybe. It’s just a guy he talks to online.”

Jess nearly snorts out the iced tea she’s sipping. “A guy?”

“Yeah. They only talk through anonymous messages, but please. You have to promise not to say anything to Dean. He doesn’t know that I know.”

“Wait, he doesn’t know that you know he’s talking to this guy?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “No, he doesn’t know that I know _how much_ he’s talking to the guy. Dean admitted to liking him, so I did a little digging. It’s gone way beyond just liking him.”

Jess’s eyes bug out a little bit, and she gives up trying to finish her lunch until she gets some clarification. “So they’re really into each other, and what? You’re gonna try to play matchmaker? You know that sort of thing never ends well, right? You should just let it alone, Sam.”

Sam groans. He knows she’s right, but… “You haven’t read their conversations, Jess. I would never in a million years have guessed Dean had that sort of thing in him.”

“And you’re sure he actually wrote them? He’s not just living vicariously through the real author? Because that seems more like the kind of thing your brother has in him.” She smirks, probably recalling the various and sundry inappropriate remarks he’s made in her presence. Oh, and the time he hit on her when Sam first introduced them.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

She turns thoughtful. “Well, then. How are we going to make this work?”

Sam tells her everything he knows about the blogger his brother’s obsessed with, and explains how he plans to track the guy down.

“And you don’t think sending him a message through his Tumblr account yourself would be the fastest and easiest way to get in touch with him?”

Sam squirms at the suggestion. “Then I’d have to explain who I am, and how I know his anonymous Fiance. I don’t want to scare the guy off. Dean can probably handle that on his own. I just want to figure out who he is, and then get him and Dean together in the same place at the same time, and let nature take its course.”

“And what, stand back and narrate the events as they unfold, like some kind of demented nature documentary?" She puts on a fancy English accent and in a deep and serious voice says, "The wild bloggers attract a mate with an impressive display of plumage and a gruff and burly mating call. Let’s observe as they dance around each other.”

“Exactly.”

Jess shakes her head and smiles fondly. “You are a nitwit. But I’ll do anything I can to help.”

 

After lunch, they part ways with a promise to get together again for dinner. Sam attends his last class of the day, and heads out to his car just before four. He checks his messages before driving home, and is surprised to find two from Charlie.

He listens to a full thirty seconds of her chewing him out about not asking for help planning the party before the message cuts off. The second message is a continuation of the rant from the first, with the dire warning to call her back if he enjoys keeping all his bits attached in their original locations. He calls her back.

By the time he starts the car to head home, he and Jess have plans to eat dinner at Charlie’s house so they can properly finalize the details for the big party. When he pulls into the driveway at half past four, he’s surprised to see Dean’s Impala already there. He’s almost never home from work this early, especially on a Friday.

Sam feels an irrational wash of worry before considering that maybe he just closed early as a little celebratory gift to his employees. Or maybe just for himself. He works too hard, and Sam’s told him that a thousand times. His initial fear that something could be wrong disappears on a tide of happier thoughts.

He unlocks the front door, and sees Dean lying on the couch with a huge bowl of popcorn, a beer, and the television blaring the opening credits to Raiders of the Lost Ark. So, there’s still a fifty-fifty chance his brother’s in a good mood. Raiders either means he’s really happy, or upset enough to need a foolproof distraction.

“Hey, Dean. You’re home early. Taking a vacation day or something?”

Dean pauses the movie and sits up. “I guess you could say that. Charlie came by and took care of the computer end of things today, and the ‘Vette’s done. Short of starting a new project, there really wasn’t anything else for me to do, so I came home. I was gonna make burgers here in a bit, if you want one.”

“Thanks, but no. I’m picking Jess up in an hour. We’re going out for dinner.”

“Suit yourself. I have enough for Jess, too.”

“Maybe next time. She made plans already.”

Dean shrugs, and kicks back onto the couch again, cradling the popcorn bowl to his chest. “Okay then. I won’t wait up. You kids be safe out there.”

“Yeah, whatever, Dean. I’m gonna go get ready. You enjoy your movie.”

He doesn’t reply, just hits play. By the time Sam has showered, changed, and come back downstairs, Dean’s sound asleep. He pulls the empty beer bottle from his brother’s hand, and sets it and the popcorn bowl down on the coffee table. He leaves the movie on, his brother passed out contentedly on the couch.

 

Dean wakes up an hour later, just in time to watch some Nazis melting, and gets up to make himself dinner. He eats on the couch in front of the television, after starting Raiders back at the beginning, seeing as he slept through it the first time. It’s not like he couldn’t recite the entire script from memory, but it’s the principle of the thing. Because he’s not purposely avoiding sitting at the kitchen table where his laptop is.

When the movie ends for the second time, it’s almost ten o’clock, and he hasn’t heard back from Sam yet. He makes the safe assumption that he’s staying over at Jessica’s apartment, and turns off the tv. He washes up the mess he made at dinner, straightens everything in the kitchen, and ponders a complete reorganization of the pantry. After the third circuit around the kitchen while avoiding direct eye contact with the computer, he sighs, and flops down in the chair.

While the computer’s booting, he tries to convince himself that it’s okay if there’s no new reply yet. The pumpkin dog on the login page has been replaced by a rather impressive drawing of Sebastian Stan, and he admires it for a second or two before convincing himself he’s just being a chickenshit and logging in already.

Now that he’s properly psyched himself up, he goes straight to his tracked tags. Bumblebee always tags his replies as #Fiance Anon, which Dean quickly realized was a rather popular tag, so instead he tracks his reply tag, #Human Beeing Buzzing. There’s one new reply to the #Lost Girl Anon, but that’s it. Nothing for him.

He’s practically resigned himself to never hearing from his friend again, and clicks back to his dash to see if anything else is new. Charlie posted something about plans coming together for their party next Friday, but Dean just doesn’t have the heart to read it right then. He glosses past a few other text posts, stopping to chuckle at a comic about Thor being a jerk and leaving Mjolnir on the toilet seat so no one else can use the bathroom, before continuing down the page.

The next post down halts him in his tracks. It’s a photo of a very familiar glass, etched with the words “Harvelle’s Roadhouse,” and filled to the brim with what looks like a nice dark ale. He has to check three times before it registers that his Bumblebee posted the picture, and only three hours ago he was sitting across the bar from the closest thing Dean’s had to a mother for most of his life.

His first impulse is to call Ellen and ask if she remembers a guy taking a picture of his beer around 7:15 that night. Maybe he can at least get a general description of the guy he’s been crushing on for more than a year. He catches himself before he can actually dial the phone. He doesn’t even remember picking it up. Laughing a little hysterically, he sets it back down and takes a few deep breaths. If he’s not careful, this could turn into a repeat of the pink frosted donut, but on an epically more humiliating level. The smart thing to do would be to calm down, so he scrolls past the photo and sees the caption. _A little meditative and self-reflective imbibing was in order tonight. I hope all of you are having a pleasant evening. Cheers._ Strangely enough, the only tags below the post read _#a special toast to #Fiance Anon_.

“What the hell does that _mean_ though?” Dean actually whines out loud at the computer. No. Not whines. Wonders. Yes, that’s what he does.

Did Bumblebee get his message, and think this would be enough of a reply? But then what? Is he accepting the post without acknowledging the sentiment Dean so clearly intended? Is he rejecting Dean outright? But no, that doesn’t seem right. You don’t raise a glass and make a toast when you’re brushing someone off. At least, Dean doesn’t _think_ that’s how it works.

Or maybe Tumblr ate his ask, and Bumblebee never got it. Maybe he’s wondering why he hasn’t heard from his Fiance Anon in a few days and this is his way of reaching out. That doesn’t seem quite right to Dean, either.

This wasn’t the first time Bumblebee randomly tagged him in a post that wasn’t a direct reply to one of his asks, but it was the first time the post didn’t relate to something specific they’d been talking about recently. He also usually tagged those random posts with a reason for including the Fiance Anon tag. The fact that he’d posted something so vague and yet so specific all at once set Dean’s heart racing.

Had Bumblebee somehow figured out who Dean is? Charlie said it would only take her a minute to hunt him down that afternoon, and he’d told her not to. He’d put the ball squarely in the other man’s court. It's up to him to decide how to handle it now. But what if this _is_ his way of handling it?

Dean looks at the clock. 10:04 pm. The Roadhouse is just hitting its Friday night peak, and is probably packed. He could drive over and have a look around to see if maybe Bumblebee is still there. The fact he has no idea what the man looks like doesn’t deter him in the slightest. He pulls on his boots and jacket, and races for the front door. He doesn’t even bother to shut the laptop in his haste.

 

Thus ended, hmm, let’s see, uh… part five and two sevenths of the unmaking of Dean Winchester. (What, this is some fancy newfangled math, here! Don’t question the formula.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the conspiracy deepens, and the title finally starts to make sense.

Sam swings by and picks up Jess on his way to Charlie’s, with nothing more specific planned than hashing out the details for the Winchester Auto celebration. Oh, and the promise of Gilda’s famous creamy chicken and dumplings. That alone would make the trip worthwhile, but then Jess mentions Sam’s quest for Dean’s mysterious bee man, and wonders if Charlie might be able to help them out with a little hacker magic.

“Come on, Sam. You can’t tell me you didn’t think to ask her for an assist here. Give her five minutes alone in a room with a computer, and she could probably pull up a full background check that would make the FBI jealous.”

Sam squirms a bit at the idea. Yes, he and Charlie have become friends over the years, but she was Dean’s friend first, and that’s where her loyalties will lie. If she knows why they want the information, she may refuse to help, at least without consulting Dean first. Then again, if they can convince her that they are on a mission of mercy to connect these two stubborn asses in real life, she may be swayed to their cause. He hesitantly agrees with Jess, under the sole condition that she leave the entire subject in his hands. “That means you say nothing. Agreed?”

Jess swears a vow of silence, and Sam relaxes a bit.

“First of all, he’s my brother. I know how he can get about people interfering in his life. And second, if things go pear-shaped, I want it known that you had absolutely nothing to do with any of this. If he’s pissed, he can be pissed at me. He’ll forgive me. Eventually. Most likely.”

His shoulders slump at that, and Jess reaches over to pat his knee reassuringly. They drive the rest of the way in silence.

 

Charlie answers the door in her usually bubbly fashion, but her grin wilts when she gets a look at the two sad sacks on her doorstep. Her usual greeting of _What’s up, bitches?_ comes out more like _What’s uuuuuoooooh my._ Without another word, she ushers them into the kitchen and hands them each a Coke. Gilda’s just pulling dinner out of the oven, but she and Charlie share a knowing look as Sam and Jess seat themselves. Charlie pulls out a chair, sits down, and folds her hands on the table like a schoolteacher about to scold two misbehaving students.

“First off, you aren’t about to ask me to break the law.”

It’s a statement, not a question, so Sam just shakes his head. Charlie obviously has some idea of what’s been going on then. It was time to figure out exactly what everyone knew. Potential law-breaking could wait for now.

Charlie presses on with extreme caution, in the tone of voice normally reserved for phrases such as _The eagle flies at midnight_  and _The fat man walks alone_. “Sooo, Dean and I had a nice long talk this afternoon.”

Jess rolls her lips together and bites down in the universal sign for _I have something to say but I am not going to say it even though I really really want to_. Instead she defers to Sam.

He starts out by addressing the heart of their dilemma. “If Dean knew we were all sitting here discussing this, I think we can all agree his head would explode.”

There’s a general noise of grudging consensus from everyone in the room. Oddly, it grounds Sam and encourages him to go on. It’s the closest thing he’s going to get to a vow of silence on the matter outside these four walls.

“I don’t know if he told you any more than he told me, but I feel safe assuming you pried out at least as much as I did. I’m guessing more, since he half expects you to just hack into his Tumblr account whether he wants you to or not.”

Charlie nods solemnly. “He showed it to me himself.”

“Huh, same here.” Sam studies her reaction. “But how _much_ of it did he show you.”

She huffs a big breath out between her lips and sags, her head dropping halfway to her clasped hands. “He showed me everything. And yes, I do mean everything. So much that I freaking _volunteered_ to break the law for him, which I won’t do for anyone else, so don’t even ask. He refused, by the way. He’s still got a moral compass. Unfortunately.”

Gilda sets a dish in front of everyone before serving herself and sitting down across from Jess. The two of them acknowledge the promise they each made to keep silent with a little smirk and an eye roll, respectively, while their partners stand off across the table.

“Yeah. I’ve been doing my own research, and I have a couple of avenues I'm trying to explore, but nothing definitive yet.” Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out real slow. “I also may have done a little exploring around Dean's Tumblr on my own, without his knowledge.”

Charlie nods once, slowly. “Dean said you saw enough to have figured out he’s, uh, at least a little turned on by a hot guy.”

Sam laughs at her attempt to soften the blow. “He only thinks he’s subtle about it. He forgets I spent the first fifteen years of my life practically worshipping the ground he walks on. It's hard to miss, if you spend any time at all with the guy.”

“Oh my god,” Charlie gushes, finally feeling free to speak the whole truth. “You should’ve seen him in high school. Senior year, this guy Michael would not leave him alone. He even asked Dean to prom. He turned out to be kind of a creeper, so good for Dean he was already taking Cassie, or that could’ve gotten ugly. But yeah. I sensed a little mutual tension there for a while before he took the easier road and asked Cassie out. I should send that girl a fruit basket or something. I mean, she broke your brother’s heart right after graduation, but still. Last I heard, Michael was serving time for basically stalking and kidnapping some guy at his college. Cassie definitely turned out to be the lesser of two evils.”

 “Wow. Yeah. Dean never told me about that.”

Charlie shrugs. “What was he supposed to say? Your dad would’ve kicked his ass for even thinking about dating a guy.”

“You’re probably right,” Sam admits grudgingly. His father could be a jerk about these sorts of things, and he didn’t blame Dean for keeping that kind of secret. Things are different now, though. Dean’s his own boss, free and clear. Over the last five years, he’s earned a reputation as a good person and an excellent mechanic. His customers adore him, and he’s making a name for himself in the industry. Who he dates shouldn’t really matter. And it doesn’t, not to anyone who really cares about him, anyway.

Then again, Sam can’t even recall the last time Dean went out with anyone. There was Lisa in the year after their father died, but their relationship didn’t last much longer than Cassie did. He knows his brother goes out with his friends, and once in a while might troll the bars on his own on a Saturday night. It’s a college town, and he’s an attractive, successful twenty-three-year-old man. There’s probably been no shortage of willing co-eds to cross his path. But in the last year or so, Sam’s noted a marked decrease in Dean’s weekends out. He's always credited it to an increase in his restoration business since the tv spot, but when Sam really thinks about it, he knows it started earlier than that. Months earlier. Right around the time he first started chatting with Human_Bee-ing.

“Oh. My. God.” He stares out past Charlie’s shoulder, toward the back door. Charlie whips her head around, thinking that maybe Dean’s shown up and has been listening to their conversation. But no, Sam’s off in Sammyland.

“What? What’s wrong?” Jess looks around frantically, also alarmed by Sam’s outburst.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just did the math. Dean hasn’t been out on a date since the weekend before he first started talking to the bee dude. And I remember, because it was right before I started college. He picked up some chick at the campus bookstore when I was there getting my textbooks. And he hasn’t been out again since.”

“He’s been out. He goes to the Roadhouse at least once a week,” Jess adds.

“Yeah, but he goes there for the burgers, or to hang out with Jo, or to help Ellen out if the place is busier than she can handle on her own. He wouldn’t even think about picking someone up there. It would be like flirting in front of our mom.” Sam shivers at the thought of demonstrating any behavior that could remotely be interpreted as sexual under Ellen’s nose. Yeah, even Dean is frightened enough of her to keep it PG rated at the Roadhouse. He might flirt, but that’s only because he doesn’t know how to _not_ flirt, but it would never go beyond that. Sam’s sure of it.

“So, what are you saying, Sam,” Gilda asks, feeling bolstered by the fact that Jess broke their pact of silent support first. “That he’s had some sort of feelings for this man for over a year, and hasn’t acted on them? How can he stand it? It must drive him mad.”

“I don’t think he realized it at first,” Charlie says. “I read every last one of their exchanges, and they’ve both become more outspoken, for lack of a better word. There was an awful lot of tap dancing in the early days, from both of them. But things changed slowly enough that I don’t think either of those jerks even realized it was happening.”

“Yeah, that last post the bee man made, with the two dudes and his comment about pining away for that sort of love? I could hardly to stand to look at Dean after he saw it. I was ready to get a bucket and a mop in case he melted into a puddle right then and there. It was sorta sad, really. As soon as I caught his attention, he locked it down, hard. Like it was something he needed to hide from me. God, that must suck so bad, to be so afraid of wanting something.”

“It can be, but only if you let it,” Charlie said, grabbing up Gilda’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “Neither of us really have any flesh-and-blood family to answer to, but it can still be terrifying when people find out we’re together-together. You never know how people will react, but the trick is you have to just not care. We’re not responsible for their opinions. I know Dean gets that in relation to us,” she waves her free hand between herself and Gilda, “But seeing the same is true for himself is another ball of cats entirely.”

Jess looks from Charlie to Gilda, and finally to Sam, and mouths _ball of cats?_ , to which Sam frowns a little bit, raises his eyebrows, and shrugs.

Charlie catches the tail end of their exchange. “What. A ball of cats is a serious weapon. It’s all teeth and claws. Plus, they make Dean sneeze. It’s hard to fend off a ball of cats when you can’t see through red puffy eyes.”

Jess laughs, and Sam snorts.

“So we’re all on the same page with Project Fiance But No More Anon?” Charlie asks the group.

Gilda raises her hand politely and waits to be called on, like it was an actual board meeting of the Save Dean Winchester From Himself Society.

“Yes, my dear,” Charlie acknowledges her.

“I propose we choose a less on-the-nose and possibly easier to remember name for this project.”

“All in favor?” Charlie continues the unofficially official proceedings.

Three aye’s ring out.

“Motion carried. What should we call ourselves, then?”

“How about Fianc-bee,” Jess suggests. “It’s almost Fiance, but the other guy likes bees, so, Fiancbee.”

Sam laughs out loud. “It sounds like you were trying to say Beyonce, but got it turned around somehow.”

With the tension finally broken, they all put their heads together to create a plan of action. Sam expresses a concern that Dean would somehow know if they hacked into his Tumblr for reference purposes, but Charlie assures him Dean will never find out. They scan through the vast majority of their posts searching for clues to the Fiancbee’s identity.

It becomes clear rather quickly that Charlie already found out everything there was to know about the guy, probably down to the color of his eyes and what kind of tea he prefers-- which they all sort of guess when Charlie accidentally tells them what kind of tea he prefers. (For reference purposes, it’s green jasmine.) She keeps her mouth shut after that. She’s willing to guide them in their search, but she made a promise to Dean not to interfere directly, so she won’t just hand them the answers they seek.

Jess almost cracks through her resolve when she asks whether Charlie thinks the Fiancbee (since the nickname just sorta stuck) and Dean are compatible. She refuses to answer at first, until Jess clarifies her interest with _at least tell me the guy’s not a 60-year-old professional dirt farmer with six wives or something._ Charlie assures them that no, their bee man is indeed close in age to Dean, never married, gainfully employed, and “dreamy.” Whatever that’s supposed to mean. She steadfastly refuses to describe him in detail.

They go around like this for close to an hour, until dinner’s finished. Charlie and Jess eventually leave Sam to winnow down the list of potential citizens of Lawrence who fit the general description they’ve cobbled together.

The two women finalize all the plans for Friday’s party while Jess washes the dishes and Charlie dries them and puts everything away. By the time they’re done, Sam’s narrowed his list to eleven men, and is more than a little interested that his TA, Castiel, is still on the list, despite his most thorough efforts to eliminate him as a suspect. Sam snorts at the notion that he’s already shifted into lawyer mode, referring to the object of his brother’s recent affections as a “suspect.” It fits, strangely. Innocent until proven Beyonce, or Fiancbee.

It’s decided, having concluded all the business they’d assembled to handle, that their next logical step is to go out for ice cream. It’s still only about 7:30, the sun is just setting, and it’s an unseasonably warm and balmy early October evening, so they agree to walk the three blocks to the nearest ice cream parlor for dessert. Gilda excuses herself to fetch her shoes, while Sam and Jess step outside to wait on the porch. Which leaves Charlie alone in the kitchen to shut down her laptop.

It’s still open to the Fiancbee’s blog. Out of habit, she hits the refresh button at the top of the page to check for any new posts before logging out. She’s half stunned to find a picture of a Roadhouse Ale, and the comment below the photo, timestamped just a few minutes ago. She’s even more taken aback to see it tagged #Fiance Anon.

She thinks it must be an invitation. If he’s half as smart as his college transcripts claim he is, The Fiancbee’s got more than a passing notion of who his anonymous Tumblr love is in real life. She shakes her head, and wonders how Dean hasn’t realized that within seconds of liking each new Human_Bee-ing post, he goes and sends an anonymous message to the guy. Once or twice, and the Bee might not notice the pattern. After a solid _year_ of doing it, a blogger would have to be a moron not to pick up on the coincidental timing, put two and two together, and at the very least come up with Impala67, where the blog owner is listed as a guy named Dean in Lawrence, Kansas. One tiny leap from there is the link on his page promoting the WinchesterAuto blog, and voila. Connection made.

So if Charlie figured this all out in a matter of hours, how could this man sit on this information for over year without acting on it? It breaks her heart to think about it, so she logs out and shuts the laptop.

 

Thus ended part six and four elevenths of the unmaking of Dean Winchester. (Do you sense a trend in the calculations? No? Good. Neither do I.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein I exchange 3000 words between Charlie and Cas! (I also may have occasionally slipped into the past tense by accident a bit, because, duh, these two should've met years ago. It's a crime, I tell you!)

The walk from Charlie’s to the ice cream shop takes them within a few blocks of the Roadhouse, and after determining that the Fiancbee is probably still sitting at the bar, nursing his beer, she can’t resist the temptation to at least check the guy out in person. Would it be rude to ditch her girlfriend and their invited company at the door to the ice cream shop? She weighs the options, and decides she just doesn’t care.

Sam pulls the door open for Jess, and holds it for Gilda and Charlie. Instead of walking in, Charlie hesitates on the sidewalk, patting at her pockets for dramatic effect.

“Oh, gee, I think I left my wallet at home. I guess I’ll have to run back and grab it.” She realizes it sounds strained and sing-songy, but she just can’t make herself act casual.

“Don’t worry about it, Charlie. I’ve got you covered.” Sam says, still holding the door.

“But… but I also wanted to stop at the…” She scans the street for any open business. “At the liquor store! Yes! That! I need beer.”

“I’ll spot you a twenty, Charlie. Really, it’s fine.”

She tries winking at Sam, but it doesn’t feel natural. She may have put a little too much into her method acting. “But I really need my wallet. They’ll card me if I try to buy beer.”

“Okay, okay.” Sam grins at her. “Don’t hurt yourself. Do you want me to order you something?”

“No, thanks, Sam. I might just stop at the liquor store first, on my way, and then I guess go back to put the beer in the fridge, and then come back here. Ice cream might get all melty by then.” She leans in close to Sam’s shoulder and whispers, “That’s a good enough excuse, right?”

Sam’s eyes widen, but he keeps his voice quiet. “You think you have a lead on Beyonce?”

Charlie snorts, but plays along. “Yeah. I think I have to check on it.”

“You want me to come?”

She can see Sam practically bouncing on his toes, ready to follow. “I think it’s best I handle this alone. Don’t want to spook him.”

“Okay. I’ll make excuses for you, but only if you promise to text me when you learn anything. And I do mean anything.”

“Aye aye.” She salutes him, and half jogs off in the opposite direction of her house.

 

The Roadhouse is crowded, but not packed. The Friday dinner patrons are starting to clear out, and the Friday night partying crowd is starting to trickle in. It’s a weird mix of locals out for a burger and a beer, and college students and bikers and pool hustlers out for a good time. She scans the bar for the messy, dark hair she’d inspected on Beyonce’s (aw hell, who is she to argue with a memorable nickname like that?) driver’s license and passport photos.

There is a man sitting at the bar with his back to the door. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt, and his hair’s all rumpled like he’s spent most of the day standing outside in a stiff wind. Or maybe he went skydiving. She takes a fortifying breath and squares her shoulders, then marches right up to her likely target. She detours to the empty bar stool to his right, and climbs up as gracefully as she can. She’s grateful she’s in jeans, and not in her Queen of Moons gown, or she’d need her handmaiden to hoist her up on her throne.

Ellen spots her from the other side of the bar, and gives a little wave to let her know she’s next. While she waits, she glances over at the man next to her to get a positive ID. She’s not a hundred percent sure, but she’s sure enough to risk a conversation.

“Hi there,” she says, dragging the man’s attention from his nearly empty glass of ale.

He looks up at her, and wow, yeah. She’s completely sure this is Beyonce. Or, er. Fiancbee. That guy. Because wow. There’s no mistaking his eyes.

“Hello,” he replies, smiling a little wanly, like he was secretly hoping someone else would take that seat.

“You weren’t holding this spot for someone, were you? I mean, it’s okay if I sit here?”

He glances at his watch and sighs. “No, I suppose not. Please feel free to stay.”

Charlie finds it a lot easier to play undercover spy in this situation, because she genuinely feels the surprise when she replies. “Oh no! I’m sorry. Did you get stood up? Because I’d be happy to sit here and pretend to be interested, just in case they still show up late. That is, if you want to go for a little payback-with-jealousy thing.”

The man laughs, and finally gives Charlie a genuine smile. “That won’t be necessary. I didn’t have a planned date. It was more of a little game, and it looks like I lost tonight.” His smile fades a bit, and he takes another slow sip of his beer.

“Well you know, maybe the other person doesn’t understand the rules yet. Have you thought about playing in easy mode for a while until they catch on? Because all I can imagine right now is they’re the loser in this scenario.”

“I am relatively certain the other player is perfectly able to solve the clue I left him, but the likeliest outcome is that he simply won’t see it until it's too late.”

Charlie feels like they’re already talking in a code they both understand, and she’s at least ninety percent sure that Beyonce here knows exactly who she is, too. She is, after all, best friends with Dean. If he hasn’t picked up on Charlie’s existence after a year of studying Dean well enough to know that he often turns up at the Roadhouse on a Friday night, then he’s certainly at least noticed Charlie in passing. She has her make-it-or-break-it moment, and sticks out her hand.

“I’m Charlie, but I think you already knew that, yes?”

The man smiles again. “Yes, Charlie. I knew that. You probably have the entire game solved for me, correct?”

Charlie smirks and tilts her head to the side. “I am pretty good at games, Castiel, but I’ve only known this one existed since about two thirty this afternoon. I might be at a slight disadvantage.”

Castiel’s eyes go wide, “Since this afternoon? You mean, everything, you only just found out. Oh.” As he talks, he slowly lowers his eyes back to the damp and wrinkly napkin beneath his beer, and starts fidgeting like he’s seriously considering bolting from the bar and never looking back.

“Hey, no, it’s not like that at all. You were probably close to beating the boss level on your own before I showed up and made you doubt yourself. Just hear me out.”

Castiel gulps down the last of his beer and sets the empty glass on the bar. Charlie’s sure she’s about to be dismissed, but then he raises his hand and gets Ellen’s attention. He points at his glass, then holds up two fingers. Ellen nods, winks at Charlie, and pours their drinks.

She sets their beers down on the bar and says hello to Charlie. “And where’s Dean tonight? Don’t tell me he’s still at the garage again. That boy’s fixin’ to work himself to death.”

“No. I think he’s probably at home, sulking.”

“What for? He probably just drove himself into the ground trying to finish that Corvette up for the pushy ass that bought her. And where’s Gilda? You came out without her?”

“Oh, she’s down the road with Sam and Jess. I just stopped in to say hi to Castiel, here. I can’t stay long, but I needed to talk computers with him for a minute.”

Ellen nods. “Well, then I’ll let you get back to it. If you hear from Dean, tell him I expect him to get off his couch this weekend. That boy needs some fresh air.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ellen nods, and moves off to deal with her other patrons.

“So I take it you and Dean are close?” Castiel sips his new beer and tries not to sound a little jealous.

“Best friends since ninth grade, yeah.”

“But he never talked about me before today?”

Charlie takes a drink of her own beer, and puzzles over how to respond for a minute. “There’s a lot you probably don’t know about Dean, no matter how much you’ve watched him, or talked to him as an anon. Which is adorable, by the way. But entirely beside the point, so moving on.

“This might actually be easier if you tell me what you know, and I can fill in the rest. Or at least, enough to convince you that you’re on the right track here.”

Castiel regards her for a moment, and eventually accepts her sincerity. “I know his father left him the family business when he passed away a few years ago, and he recently paid off the loans on the garage. I know he likes to bake, especially pie. His brother, Sam, is in one of the classes I am a TA for at the university, and I’ve spoken with him on many occasions. I admit that much of what I know about Dean seems superficial, but from talking with him, even in the anonymous way we have been, and from spending time with his brother, I know the kind of person he is.”

“And what kind of person is that, exactly?”

“The kind I would like to know better.”

“Well then, my friend, we have much to discuss.” She pulls him by the elbow, making sure he brings his drink along, and drags him to a relatively quiet booth in the far corner of the bar. She explains how she came to know about him and his blog, and then shares enough about Dean, his childhood of basically raising Sam after their mother died, starting to work at their father’s garage as soon as his father let him, but sneaking in on the weekends since he was maybe eleven or twelve to rebuild whatever engine he could get his hands on, from rusted lawnmowers left out for the trash to his friend’s go kart to the occasional motorcycle.

She gives him a brief rundown of his experiences with Michael, Cassie, and Lisa, and an explanation for why Dean never told his family about Michael. And finally, she shares everything she knows about Dean’s undercover identity as the Fiance Anon, how Dean told Sam and her all about it. She mentions how Sam basically dug up everything on his own, and how their little espionage group formed that evening, up to and including the fact that Castiel has been assigned the code name Fiancbee, which in turn had morphed into Beyonce.

“And that’s how you became a popular music icon, my good sir.” Charlie goes to take another sip of her beer, and realizes she’s drunk the whole thing. Well, that would explain how that last sentence somehow escaped out of her mouth, then.

“I am delighted that, despite having uncovered my identity, you still arranged a covert intelligence gathering meeting to appease Sam. You are a good friend to both him and to Dean, Charlie.”

“Eh, I try. As much as those dorks will let me. I also lost my parents when I was really young. Right before I met Dean, actually. If it weren’t for him, I don’t know where I’d be today. Probably in jail. He helped me start my computer consulting business, and recommended me to half the small business owners in town. He’s a good guy.”

“I know he is. Thank you for sharing all of this with me, Charlie. I hope Dean’s not upset that you broke his trust.”

“He’ll get over it once he sees you. Speaking of which, that was my primary mission objective stopping in here. I saw your post from the bar, but seeing as how Dean hasn’t run through the door in a Pink Donut Frenzy yet, I assume he either fell asleep, or is still feeling too humiliated to check Tumblr yet.

“That reminds me, thank you for inspiring the original Pink Donut Frenzy. You don’t know what that did to him, but if you stick around long enough you might get to see one for yourself. Every once in a blue moon, he goes on a desperate tear for something or other, but for some reason, the Pink Donut stuck as a descriptor. So, thanks.”

Castiel laughs. “Well, seeing as how we are making confessions here, I should let you know that I did bear witness to the Pink Donut Frenzy, as you call it. Oddly enough, I’d had some unexpected expenses come up over that summer, and since I didn’t have any teaching duties for nearly two months, and I needed some spare cash, I took a part time job at the Gas n’ Sip down the block from Dean’s garage. I don’t think he saw me, and another associate rang up the sale, but it’s really hard to forget someone like Dean barreling into the store, rifling through the donut case, and coming up with the last pink frosted and rainbow sprinkled donut like he’d pulled the Arkenstone from under Smaug’s nose.”

“So you’ve known who he was all this time?”

“Well, not exactly. At the time, I wondered if he might be the person I’d offered a pink donut to online, simply from the coincidental timing of his, er, frenzy, but I couldn’t have known after those first few exchanges that we’d still be talking over a year later.”

“Please don’t ever tell him I told you this, but it took him nearly a year to work up the nerve to send you that first message. He’d been following you since you first started following the shop’s page. And he only follows about ten people. Sitting at this table is about one fifth of Dean’s entire Tumblr universe.”

Castiel leans across the table and in his most serious tone says, “Then we must defend this table against all comers.”

“I started following you today, too. I was going to suggest you follow Dean back, but that might literally kill him. Pink Donut Frenzy would shoot straight to Pink Donut Coronary Event.”

“No, I think that will have to wait. I do visit his blog on occasion, though.”

“Did you know that he has every single ask you answered, and every post you ever tagged him in bookmarked? I’d known he was collecting something on Tumblr when he asked me to show him how to save posts without liking them all. He wanted to know if he should print them all out. Poor thing. He took just enough computer classes to keep his business running, and paid me to take care of the rest for him. But I had no idea how big a deal it was until I saw him this afternoon, and I knew something was wrong.”

“This was about the message he sent me last night, then.”

“Yeah. Sam used his laptop, and found his blog. It was a complete fluke, really. But look at this.” She waves her hands back and forth across the table between them. “He told me today that after his talk with Sam, he was feeling a little brave and a little nostalgic. He went back through a lot of your old posts, and then sent you that message. Which I read, by the way. Sorry about that, but I had Dean’s permission.”

Castiel stares at her, his head tilted to the side, considering her with those crazy blue eyes like she is the final clue to this game. “Yes, that message. My method of dealing with it didn’t factor in the possibility that Dean might not even see the post before I leave. Or he might see it, and assume I was already gone.”

“Or we might get a Pink Donut Frenzy, yeah.”

“There has to be a way to reassure Dean that everything is fine, but I am hesitant to post something so personally meaningful on my blog for everyone to see. And I don’t know how to let him know that, without revealing that I’ve known who he was this entire time. He might think that I'm either not interested in him, or else I would’ve come forward sooner, or that I was stalking him secretly and leading him on for my own purposes. I enjoy our anonymous talks, but by the time I realized that I might want more, to know him as a real person, it already seemed too late to do anything without it looking bad if he were to discover this.”

Charlie hums thoughtfully, just tipsy enough to loosen her tongue. “Why don’t you make a post to let him know you got the message, but that it feels too private to post on your blog for the whole world to see. Give him a chance to make the next move.”

“I already planned to do that first thing in the morning if he didn’t show up here tonight.”

“If you’d like, I’d be happy to talk to him some more, too. If you trust me with this. I mean, I know we just met, but I really do want the best for Dean, and I like you.” She grins and leans across the table to pinch Castiel’s cheek. “It’s a good thing I walked here because Ellen would take away my car keys about now anyway.”

Cas glances down at his phone to check the time. It's almost ten. He and Charlie had been sitting there for over two hours, talking about Dean. “I should be going, as well. Is there some way I can contact you?”

“QueenOfMoondoor on Tumblr.” She snatches up Castiel’s phone and adds contacts for both herself and Dean, before calling her own phone to capture Castiel’s number. “Now obviously don’t call Dean yet. That would ruin the surprise.”

“Of course. And thank you for everything, Charlie. I hope to hear from you soon.”

“Guaranteed.”

She and Castiel wave goodbye to Ellen, who's too busy dealing with customers to notice, and head their separate ways home. At least they finally have the beginnings of a solid plan.

 

Thus ended step seven and six thirteenths of the unmaking of Dean Winchester. (I have no idea where these fractions are coming from. They involve a lot of prime numbers, which can be intimidating, and I’m too afraid to look for their source.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Dean gets whacked on the noggin by a metaphorical cartoon frying pan. Repeatedly. (But never fear! This is me we're talking about here. The kook with the oddball number fixation and a penchant for actually using the word "thusly" in daily conversation. The frying pan is entirely metaphorical. And cartoonish.)

Dean makes it to the Roadhouse in record time, only to circle the parking lot twice before finding a spot. 10:11 pm. Nearly three hours after Bumblebee’s post, he doesn’t have a lot of hope the guy stuck around that long. He walks up to the door while breathing steadily in and out, in and out, so he doesn’t pass out. _This won’t be like the donut_ becomes his mantra.

The bar is crowded and loud, but the patrons are well behaved. It’s not a bar fight kind of crowd, at least, which raises his hopes that Bumblebee might’ve braved sitting at the bar a little longer than he otherwise might. He gets the sense that his Bee is too laid back to hang around in an unruly, rowdy group.

He pushes through the crowd, and weaves his way over to the bar. There’s not an empty seat to be had, so he makes his way around to the other side where the pass-through behind the bar is. If he’s going to bend Ellen’s ear for a few minutes, the least he can do is repay her for her time by helping her get caught up on drink orders.

Dean starts filling orders before Ellen even notices he’s there. He’s at the register making change for a patron who already wandered off back into the crowd, apparently leaving him with a $15 tip which he stuffs into the communal tip jar, when Ellen finally catches up with him about ten minutes later.

He still has no idea if any of the people at the bar are his Bumblebee, but after scanning all their faces and surreptitiously checking out their hands-- which are the only part of his Bee he’s sure he’d be able to recognize if he saw them-- he’s convinced he’s too late. Bumblebee probably left hours ago. Of course. Once again, it’s entirely his own fault. He had a perfect opportunity, but being Dean Winchester, he had to screw it up. Fuck, he’s half glad Bumblebee’s gone, and saved himself the trouble of getting tangled up with the bullshit that is Dean’s life.

“Hey, Dean. Glad to see you made it out of the house tonight.” Ellen pats him on the shoulder. “And not just because of the bartending assist.”

Already on edge, Dean feels a little suspicious. “Why’s that?”

“Oh, nothin’. Charlie was here a little while ago, and we were talking about you working too much. You need to get out and have a little fun. You spend all day inhaling starter fluid and antifreeze, and then go hide out in your man cave…”

Dean cuts her off. “I do not have a man cave. If you gotta know, I fell asleep on the couch, or I’d have been here sooner. Geez. And I took off early today, too. Finished the ‘Vette.”

“Good for you, Dean. I worry about you.”

Then it hits him. “Charlie was here? When was that?” If that little sneak saw Bumblebee’s new post and thought she could just go check him out for herself without telling him, well. She better tell him, that’s all.

“Yeah. She was talking to some guy about 7:30, I think. One of her clients, I’d guess. She said it was something about computers, and dragged him off over to the corner booth.” Ellen waves across the crowd to the far corner of the room.

Dean’s torn. It might actually be one of her computer clients, but what if it’s not? “Uh, Ellen? Are they still over there?”

“They were there last I saw, but that was more than half an hour ago. You can go see for yourself. I got these jokers well in hand now, thanks to you.”

“Thanks, Ellen. I’ll be right back.”

As Dean heads off toward the booth, he hears Ellen shout, “No rush, sweetheart.”

By the time he’s excused and pardoned himself to half a dozen lightly sloshed customers, he can see the group of women sitting in the corner booth. Charlie is not among them. He doesn’t even bother jostling the rest of the way to the table, and turns aside to push his way through a different set of people on his way back to the bar.

He stops at the pass-through and pulls out his phone. It’s 10:45, but it’s definitely not too late to bother Charlie. He sends her a text.

 

<< _I’m @ the roadhouse. heard u were here_

 

He keeps his phone out. He knows Charlie won’t take more than a few minutes to get back to him. While he’s waiting, he slides back over to where Ellen is restocking the shelves with clean glasses.

“So, did you get a look at the guy Charlie was talking to.”

Ellen keeps putting up glasses, but smiles back at him. “Yeah, a real cutie-pie. He was in here waiting for about fifteen minutes, but then in walked Charlie. They sat here for a bit, and then she dragged him away. I think his name was Cas something? I don’t know. But they talked for at least a couple hours. Must be a new client.”

Dean’s thinking _new client, my ass._ He’s just about to ask Ellen for a more detailed description when his phone buzzes in his hand. Charlie.

 

>> _Yes. And we half expected you to come barging through the door at any minute. Where were you?_

 

We? What the hell?

 

<< _What’s with the WE? WTF Charlie._

 

_> > Do you really want to have this conversation with text messages?_

 

Dean thinks about it for a minute.

 

<< _I can’t strangle u through a text. Not sure if that’s a bad thing or a good thing._

 

_> > I'm positive it’s a good thing. Shut up. And get over here as soon as Ellen lets you leave. I’ll explain everything._

 

_> > Oh, and if you get a chance, check your tumblr in about 5 minutes._

 

Dean sighs, leans against the bar, and rubs one hand over his face. The last year of his life is either about to pay off big, or deliver the hardest kick in the nuts he’s ever experienced. Either way, he probably needs a drink.

“Ellen, you still need my help tonight?”

She takes one look at him, at least forty percent more downtrodden looking than when he arrived, and takes pity. “No, honey. You go on back home if you need to. I didn’t mean to force you out if you needed a break.”

“Thanks. But I’ll take a drink first, and then I’ll walk to Charlie’s.” He shoves ten dollars in the tip jar, and pours himself a hefty four fingers of bourbon.

“Damn right you’re walking after that.” She steps in a little closer, and in a quieter voice that always reminds Dean of his mom, adds, “You sure you’re okay, Dean.”

He manages a weak smile between belts of his whiskey. “Yeah. We’ll see, but I think I am.”

She pats him on the shoulder and smiles up at him. “Okay then. I’ll see you soon. You take care of yourself.”

“You too, Ellen. And thanks.” He washes out his empty glass, dries it, and returns it to the shelf before heading out to Charlie's.

He sends her a text when he’s about halfway there.

 

<< _be there in 5._

 

_> > did you check tumblr yet? do it._

 

He pulls up the app, and keeps walking while he waits for it to load. The very first post is from Bumblebee. He stops to read it.

 

_I spent a surprising and enjoyable evening talking with a new friend tonight. I learned a few things that have made me feel optimistic for the future in a way I never have before. I suppose I’d given up trying to change things. I thought I missed my chance, and so held on to what I had, afraid I’d lose even that if I tried to ask for more._

_Fear kept me from reaching out sooner. It still keeps me from reaching all the way. Maybe we can meet in the middle._

_I’m sorry if this doesn’t make sense to anyone else, but I know there’s one person out there who needs to see it. He’ll understand. At least, I hope he will._

It’s not tagged #Fiance Anon, but it is tagged #The Queen sends her regards, and #Do not blame her for this when I am grateful for it.

 

So it’s true. The man Charlie met at the Roadhouse is definitely his Bumblebee. He’s still standing on the sidewalk, a block from Charlie’s house, reading the post over and over again, when he feels a small warm hand in his. He blinks up from the screen, and sees Charlie smiling up at him.

“I thought this might happen, so I sent Sam and Jess home, and Gilda to bed, and I came out to find you.” She takes the phone from him and starts walking him back to her house.

Dean’s got so many questions for his friend, he has no idea where to start. Charlie lets him think in peace as she nudges him gently through her front door and sits him down on the couch. She goes to the kitchen and fetches him a beer, then presses it into his hand. He sits there, absently drinking, and absolutely not completely freaking out about the last twenty four hours of his godforsaken life.

She sets his phone down on the coffee table in front of Dean, then sits down next to him. “Are you gonna be okay?”

He stares at the phone. He could pick it up right now, and favorite that post. Bumblebee would have an answer. He could reply from his actual account. He could send another anon message, and Bumblebee would have a different answer.

Last night he told Sam he’d like to know the guy in real life. He’s just been issued a formal invitation to do exactly that, but fuck. That makes it too real. What if he screws this up, just like everything else? What they had was safe. It was comfortable. But it wasn’t enough, and hadn’t been for a very long time. He longed for more, the same as Bumblebee said he did.

Then he remembers the post that set this snowball rolling downhill, and his reply to it. And it finally hits him all at once. The text post about his evening with Charlie, the photo of his beer from the Roadhouse, and even the post about finding a profound bond with someone that prompted Dean's reply with a promise to hold on and not let go: _they were all for him._ They were Bumblebee’s way of reaching out to meet him halfway.

He decides he can wait a few more minutes before doing what he knows he needs to do. Hell, it took them a year to get to this point. Taking another minute or two to let this new version of reality solidify around him isn’t going to be a deal breaker.

Dean clears his throat, but doesn’t shift his eyes from his phone. He stares at it like it might try to run away if he so much as blinks.

“So, you know who he is.” He doesn’t ask it like a question. It’s a simple statement of fact.

Charlie doesn’t even try to deny it. “Yes.”

Dean sits there, nodding slowly for a minute, until Charlie finally asks softly, “Do you want me to tell you about him?”

First things first, Dean thinks. “How long has he known who I am?”

Very carefully, Charlie answers, “A while.”

Dean finally turns to face her. “A while like two weeks or a while like months and months?”

“I’m gonna guess the second one.”

“Why…” Dean trails off, not sure if he should feel hurt, or flattered, or worried, or any of a hundred other things that flash through him too quickly for him to latch on to.

“Why didn’t he say anything?” Charlie finishes for him. “Because by the time he made the connection, you’d been talking for a while. He thought if he said anything, you’d be angry, or upset, or not want to talk to him anymore. He decided to let you make the next move. He figured eventually you’d tell him who you were on your own, but you kept sending the anonymous messages, and he was okay with that, if that’s all you wanted. But then you sent _that_ message, and he decided to take a chance.”

“With the Roadhouse picture. Yeah. I get it. I just wish I hadn’t been sitting at home with my head up my ass. If I’d seen the post sooner...”

Charlie snorts, recalling Castiel telling her about witnessing the original Pink Donut Frenzy. “We half expected you to come shooting through the door like an out of control rocket at any minute. We sat there for over two hours. What the hell were you doing anyway?”

Dean blushes, and looks down at his beer. “I fell asleep watching tv, and when I got up, let’s just say I wasn’t in a good frame of mind to be online. I was sick of feeling rejected, so I didn’t check it until about ten. I was at the Roadhouse ten minutes later. Ellen told me you were there, but when I looked, you were already gone.”

“Yeah, you probably missed us by half an hour. But you get major points for trying.”

Dean takes a swig of his beer, and pulls up another interesting question. “How the hell did he figure out who I was, anyway?”

Charlie sighs. “Oh, Dean. I love you, but you are a dope sometimes.”

“Hey!”

“You weren’t exactly subtle, you know. You’d like one of his posts, and then thirty seconds later he has a nice message about said post from his Fiance Anon. You kinda did that a lot. And to be fair, he’s a PhD candidate in linguistics and semiotics. He’s a pretty good figurer-outer.”

“Semiwhatics?”

“The study of symbols and language and meaning. He finds patterns professionally, Dean. It wasn’t too difficult to spot.”

“Wait, that’s one of Sam’s classes.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Are you saying that Sam already knows my Bumblebee?”

“First of all, he does have a name, Dean. And second of all, yes. Sam knows him. He’s the TA for that class. And before you ask, no, he didn’t know Sam was your brother until after they became friends.” After another moment of consideration, she adds, “And no, I didn’t tell anyone else who he is. Sam’s still calling him Beyonce.”

“What? Beyonce?”

Charlie waves her hands as if that could cancel out her babbling. “Code name. Not important. I thought you should be the one to tell him your online crush is a friend of his.”

Dean is oddly relieved by that. Not the Beyonce thing. He will get that that story out of Sam if it’s the last thing he does. But if someone can befriend Sammy, they get an automatic point in their favor.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Are you going to tell me his name, or do I have to keep calling him Bumblebee out loud?”

Charlie grins at him. “It is kind of adorable, and oddly fitting. Maybe I won’t tell you for a while.”

Dean groans. “Charlie.”

“Fine.” She huffs and settles herself like she’s delivering one of her royal proclamations. “His name is Castiel Novak. He keeps bees, he enjoys puzzles, and likes jasmine tea. He’s originally from Chicago, but he’s been here just over two years. Oh, and he was an unwitting witness to the original Pink Donut Frenzy.”

Dean freezes, and just stares at Charlie with his mouth hanging open.

“To be fair, he had no idea who you were at the time. He worked that summer at the Gas ‘n Sip to earn a little extra money, and he happened to be in the store when you went bonkers over a donut. He didn’t realize it was you until several months later, when he put everything together. Like I said, he enjoys puzzles.” Charlie’s laugh edges toward hysteria, but she holds it together. Dean’s still processing all of this, and she needs to stay sane for his sake.

“Ohmygod.” Dean tries to hide behind his hand. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“Absolutely nothing is wrong with you, Dean. You are the best person I know. Castiel seems to think so, too, if that helps.”

Dean nods, but he doesn’t lower his hand. “What do I do now?”

Charlie picks up his phone and programs in Castiel’s contact information. In the slot for his name, she types _Bumblebee_ , then hands it back to Dean. “For when you’re ready.”

He just looks at the entry until the screen times out and turns itself off. He wakes it up, and navigates back to Tumblr. When he finds Bumblebee’s, or Castiel’s last post, he clicks the little heart to favorite it. Instead of logging out, he opens a new ask message, types out _I understand_. He clicks send. Thirty seconds later, he has a new alert.

**Human_Bee-ing started following you.**

 

Thus ended step eight and five elevenths of the unmaking of Dean Winchester.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the author makes herself cry a little bit (but only because she is an unrepentant sap).

Dean listens while Charlie tells him as much as she knows about Castiel, before she finally hands him her laptop, kisses the top of his head, and heads off to bed. The first thing he does is check Tumblr. He’s somehow not surprised to see he has a new message waiting, a submission from Castiel.

 

_Hello, Dean. This message feels about a year overdue. When your friend Charlie found me tonight, I expected it to be the end of our relationship, if you can call it that. I confess that I have clung perhaps too strongly to your messages. When I realized who you were, I thought about contacting you, but I wasn’t sure how you’d react. You’d still not stepped out of the role of Fiance Anon, and I assumed that meant you might not be comfortable being unmasked. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever made, to leave the choice in your hands as to when, or if, you would ever make yourself known to me._

_I worried I was imagining our growing friendship, and our conversations didn’t mean as much to you as they did to me. I finally realized that I had to know, even if it cost me your regard. I was half hoping you wouldn’t take the bait, because at least I could let go of my, shall we say, fixation? It’s not entirely accurate, but it will do._

_I decided to find a place where you would feel safe, which turned out to be the Roadhouse, and you know what happened next. I’m sorry I left when I did. Charlie tells me you arrived minutes after we left._

_I hope you truly do understand now, and I haven’t ruined everything growing between us. I have a tendency to do that. From what Charlie tells me about you, you believe the same of yourself. Maybe this time, we will not ruin anything. Maybe we can save each other._

_When you are ready, I would like to finally introduce myself to you, in person. I only await your reply._

_Castiel, your Bumblebee_

 

Dean reads it over and over again. All the same stupid things he’s been worried about, the fear that the relationship he felt growing between them was all in his head, and would burst like a bubble the second he stepped out of the strict confines of the game they’d set up-- Cas feels the same way.

He recalls every time he almost decided to throw caution to the wind and sent a real message instead of an anon. More than once he’d thought about asking Charlie to use her special skills to find out who he was, but never could bring himself to do it. And now that everything’s out in the open, it actually hurts a little bit to think he might never have been the first to break. As painful as it was to feel like Bumble… like _Cas_ was just out of reach, he would’ve kept up the stupid anon messages forever rather than risk pushing him away entirely. He might let out a little broken sob at the thought, but nobody will ever be able to prove it.

He shuts the laptop and sets it on the coffee table. It’s after one in the morning, and Charlie went to bed an hour ago. He sends her a text message thanking her for everything, and letting her know that he’s sober and heading home.

He walks back to the Roadhouse. The parking lot is still fairly crowded, but patrons are filing out steadily and hailing cabs to haul their drunk asses home. Dean’s all sobered up now, so he gets in his car and goes for a long, long drive. He does his best thinking behind the wheel of his Baby.

 

Sam finally decides to get out of bed when he hears the Impala roar up their driveway at half past eight the next morning. When Charlie kicked him and Jess out last night, she all but shoved them out the front door with a slightly hysterical string of nonsense he’s been puzzling over since he woke up. She got a text, and went from polite host to basket case in three seconds flat.

_He knows! Ohmygod you have to leave now! Get out! Go home! He found out! I need to explain it to him before he does something stupid. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow, THERE’S NO TIME JUST GO!_

And that was it.

He and Jess figured it was about Dean, and that their best course of action was to let Sam handle his brother alone. He dropped her off at her building and headed home so he could be there if Dean needed to talk. And now Dean is finally home.

By the time Dean shuffles into the kitchen looking like he’s been dragged around by his hair all night and is about three shuffling steps away from an impromptu kitchen floor nap, Sam has a pot of coffee going.

“You want a cup of that, or is it too late for medical intervention to save you?”

Dean riffles through the fridge and comes up with their leftover pizza from two nights ago. He eats it straight out of the box, leaning his head back against the fridge like he could sleep right there, standing up, still chewing. “Shut up, Sammy. I drove half way to Colorado before I decided I should probably turn around and come home.”

“What, you trying to run away from home?” Sam snorts, and pours two mugs of coffee, just in case.

“Nah. Just thinking.”

Sam doesn’t want to be the one to bring it up, but the suspense is practically killing him. Dean’s obviously not angry. Well, he might be too tired to be angry at this point, but Sam’s pretty sure he’s essentially okay. “About?”

Dean throws the stale crust back in the box, slides it onto the counter, and takes a seat at the table across from Sam. He’s half nodding off in his coffee, but he takes a few fortifying sips. He needs to get through this first, and then he can sleep. “Life. Stuff. Cas.”

Sam comes dangerously close to snorting hot coffee out his nose. “Cas? You mean, Castiel Novak?”

“You are an excellent guesser, Sammy. You should go on Jeopardy. Big brain of yours, we’d be rich.”

“Oh my god. I was right.”

Dean cracks an eye open and smirks at his brother. “See? Excellent guesser.”

“No, Dean, you don’t understand.” Sam freezes. If he wants to crow about how he had this all figured out, he has to confess to snooping around in Dean’s Tumblr. Seeing his brother smiling back at him, he gets the feeling he won’t get punched for it. At least, not as hard as he was expecting to be. He sighs, and heads into the story of how he hadn’t been able to eliminate Castiel from his list of suspects, and about their conversation the previous day.

“So he’s bringing you a jar of honey, and I have to bake him a pie?”

“That’s the long and short of it, yeah.”

Dean sits there, thinking for a minute. “Are you sure he’s still gonna bring the honey, now that all this shit’s played itself out like this?”

“Pretty sure he will, yeah. He wouldn’t go back on his word like that. He’s not that kind of guy.”

“Huh. This is so weird. I’ve been talking to him for a year, but it’s like you know him better than I do. It’s fucked up.”

“I don’t think I know him better than you do, Dean. I just know him in three dimensions. You’re the one he pours his heart out to.”

Dean blushes a little, and tries to hide it behind his mug. “Yeah, well.”

Sam turns away to refill his mug and give Dean a chance to get his face back under control. He holds up the pot to offer Dean a refill, but he waves it off.

“So, what kind of pie you think he’ll like?”

“I was thinking honey pecan.”

Dean nods, and drains the last of his coffee. “I can do that.” He stands up to rinse out his mug, and a huge yawn overtakes him.

Sam has pity on him. “You need to sleep, Dean.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice.”

“But you’re not mad at us, right? We just want you to be happy, you know. We love you, and, well, you deserve it.”

“I know. I’m not mad. One question, though, and then I’m gonna crash right here whether or not you’re done talking to me.”

Sam nods eagerly. This was all going so much better than he’d hoped. “Anything, Dean.”

“What the fuck does Beyonce have to do with any of this?”

Sam stared at him for a second, and burst out laughing

 

Thus ended step nine of the unmaking of Dean Winchester. (Ooh! Back to whole numbers! This doesn't really mean anything.)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the chuckleheads-- er, I mean heroes of course-- of this story finally communicate like real people.

Dean finally does crash out, but luckily he makes it to bed first. He awakens several hours later to the sounds and smells of Sam and Jess in the kitchen making dinner. He hopes to all that is holy that Jess is doing most of the actual cooking.

Before venturing downstairs, he finally strips off the jeans and t-shirt he’d been wearing since before work yesterday morning, and takes a hot shower. He still hasn’t decided how to respond to Castiel’s long submission, but he can’t stop going over it in his head. Especially that one line. _Maybe this time, we will not ruin anything. Maybe we can save each other._ He’d been turning that one over all night long as he drove.

He shuts off the water, dries off, and pulls on a clean shirt and jeans. He unplugs his phone from the charger and checks the time. 5:42 pm. He also has a series of texts from Charlie, which he decides can wait for a least a little longer. His first priority is to make sure Sam’s not perpetrating some sort of culinary atrocity in his kitchen.

Feeling better for having slept, but still a little hazy and overwhelmed, he sneaks into the kitchen to see Jess at the stove and Sam safely chopping salad ingredients at the kitchen table. As long as his brother stays away from the actual food, everyone will probably survive dinner.

“Smells good,” he says, while getting a beer out of the fridge.

Jess turns from where she’s stirring a big pot of spaghetti and smiles at him. “Sam told me you were all right, but I needed to see it with my own eyes.”

“Yeah. I’m fine. But he told me how you guys conspired against me.” He tries to look stern and threatening, but it comes off more as petulance than anything else.

Jess crosses the kitchen and pats his cheek as he sips his beer and tries not to blush. “It wasn’t so much a conspiracy as… well, yeah, I guess it sort of was a conspiracy. You in the mood for spaghetti?”

Dean glares at her, but he's smiling. She grins back at him unrepentantly, and goes to get out an extra plate and silverware for him.

Sam scrapes chopped tomato from the cutting board into the salad, and stands up to take the knife and board to the sink. “So, Dean. Have you figured out what you’re going to say to Castiel? I mean, since he knows you know now, do you two have any plans to meet yet?”

Dean scoots down the counter out of his brother’s way. “Not yet. I mean, I told him everything was going to be okay, that I wasn’t gonna ditch him over this. He sent me back a long reply before I left Charlie’s last night. I guess that’s why I started driving. I needed to clear my head enough to write back without sounding like a fucking idiot.”

Sam dries off the cutting board and knife, and steps around Dean to grab the bottle of dressing from the fridge. “Don’t worry, Dean. You haven’t scared him off yet, and he really is a good guy. A little on the quiet side, but then again maybe that’s because I mostly know him as a teacher. But he’s brilliant, and hilarious once you catch on to his sense of humor.”

“I figured all that out myself, thanks. Why do you think I keep talking to him?”

Sam shrugs. “So, do I still have to play pie fairy and bring him his payment for the honey, or are you gonna man up and take it to him yourself?”

“Gotta make the pie before we can eat it, Sammy. But yeah, I probably should deliver it in person.”

 

They eat in relative silence, Sam and Jess taking pity on Dean and not pressuring him to come up with answers he just doesn’t have yet. After dinner, they head out to a party on campus, leaving Dean alone for the night. The first thing he does is read the texts from Charlie.

 

_> > Hope you made it home safe. And you’re welcome._

 

Then from an hour later:

 

_> > You did make it home safe, right Dean?_

 

And then about forty five minutes after that:

 

>> _Nvm. I talked to Sam. You’re an idiot for driving all night, but I should’ve known. Talk to you when you’re up._

 

He sends her a quick reply, letting her know he’s fine, and then stares at the new contact just above Charlie’s name in his phone’s directory while his laptop boots up. _Bumblebee_. It’s so tempting to call and finally hear his voice, but Castiel sent that letter laying out his intentions and his hopes, and dammit, he doesn’t feel right calling until he replies to the letter first.

He navigates straight to Human_Bee-ing’s blog. There’s only one new post, a picture of a big jar of honey with a green ribbon tied around the lid. Below it is the caption, “A gift for my #Fiance Anon.” Of course, Dean immediately likes the post, and out of habit opens the ask box. He laughs at himself, after what Charlie said about how he outed himself to Castiel in the first place. This time is different, though.

He doesn’t toggle it to anonymous. He types out, “So we’ve moved into the gift giving phase, then? I already know exactly how to repay you. I hope you’re ready for the best honey pecan pie you’ve ever tasted.” And he clicks send.

A small but insistent part of him wonders if he should’ve sent an anon reply, just so Castiel would have something to post on his blog. Then again, maybe he’ll post Dean’s message as-is, name and all. He panics for a second, but then realizes he just doesn’t care anymore. If Cas thinks it’s okay to put a name to his long-standing Fiance Anon, then it’s fine with him, too.

He opens a new submission, and does his damn level best to get all his thoughts out in an orderly fashion.

 

_Dear Cas (I hope it’s okay to call you Cas. I’ve been calling you that in my head since last night, and I’ve kind of gotten in the habit),_

_God, yes, this does feel overdue. I don’t even know how many times I almost sent you a real message, but I always chickened out at the last minute. By the time I realized how much I really wanted to, it seemed like we’d reached some sort of understanding with the whole anonymous thing. I didn’t know if you’d be happy to know who I really was, or if it would ruin the game we had going._

_Like you said, I was mostly afraid to find out that this didn’t mean as much to you as it does to me. It hurt to keep going that way, but it was better than losing it altogether. Damn, we’ve both been so stupid about this. But I don’t want to be stupid anymore._

_I drove most of the way out to Colorado last night, just thinking about all of this. That’s probably something you should know about me. When I need to think, I drive. But anyway, yeah. By the time I turned around and headed home, I was over feeling frustrated, or upset, or stupid about any of it._

_I’m sorry I didn’t get your message in time last night. I should confess I sort of panicked after I sent that last anon reply, the one that started this whole thing. I half wished I could take it back the second I sent it, and when you didn’t reply right away, I thought for sure I’d gone too far and scared you off for good. I spent most of the day yesterday sulking (or at least that’s what Charlie called it). No wonder she sat me down and forced the whole story out of me. It’s a good thing she did, though, because I didn’t even check Tumblr again until about ten last night, and if she hadn’t seen your post and realized what it meant, you and I both probably would’ve given up on each other as a lost cause. Damn, I’m probably gonna owe her at least a pie now, too._

_Sam told me about your honey for pie trade deal, and I’m happy to work with that. I have to say, now that this is all out in the open, I really do want to meet you in person. At least you already know what I look like. It’s so weird actually talking to you, you know? Instead of trying to come up with some coded message to keep any personal details to a minimum. But, it’s good weird._

_The honey looks real good, and I already know what I’m gonna make with it. You give it to Sam on Monday, and Tuesday my schedule is pretty clear for baking. If you’re free Wednesday night, maybe we could finally meet in person? Charlie put your number in my phone, but I figured I should write and make sure it was okay with you before I called._

_Whatever happens from here on out, I want you to know that I’ve always felt like you were the one who saved me, right from the start, so maybe you were right. I’m happy to return the favor._

_Dean, your Fiance Anon (who’s not so Anon anymore)_

 

He doesn’t even read over the message before he sends it. It would be too easy to delete it or change it so he doesn’t sound like such a sap, and he really doesn’t want to hide anymore.

He logs in to his WinchesterAuto account to make sure there’s no pressing messages from clients, then makes his way back to his Impala67 dash. Cas hasn’t posted his reply to the honey post yet, but he might not even be online.

He’s done pretty much everything he can, so Dean leaves the laptop open on the coffee table in front of him, but decides he has nothing better to do than wait. He gets comfortable on the couch and is about to turn the tv on when his phone rings. He looks down to see who’s calling.

Dean’s heart shoots up into his throat, and he scrambles to sit up, as if that’s going to make it any easier to answer the phone. It rings twice more while he tries to calm his breathing and clear his throat so his voice won’t crack like a twelve-year-old’s.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Dean.”

Cas’s voice isn’t what he was expecting. He’s not sure exactly _what_ he was expecting, but it wasn’t the deep, warm, and grumbling voice he was hearing now.

“Hey, Cas. I’m so glad you called.”

“I got your messages. I almost don’t want to post your reply to the honey I collected for you today.”

“Heh. I wasn’t sure if you would or not. I can send an anonymous reply, if you want something to answer publicly. I didn’t know if you wanted to keep playing the Fiance Anon game on your blog or not. Maybe some of your followers would be disappointed if we stopped.”

“I can guarantee at least a few of them would miss our interactions. I don’t post all my ask messages, but I can tell you that many of them are about you. It seems a lot of people believed that we knew each other in real life. Some people even accused me of writing those messages to myself. And while I would like to prove them wrong, I think we can come up with a better way to reveal your identity in due time.”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, hang on a sec.”

He pulls the laptop over, and types out a quick reply, anon this time.

 

_Sweets from my sweet. That is some beautiful looking honey, Bumblebee. (From your #Fiance Anon)_

 

He hits send, and asks Cas, “Is that too much? I figured we were already escalating things in a sort of vague way for the last few days.” He hears Cas clicking away on his computer, and a few seconds later, a new post appears on his dash. He can hear Cas laughing in his ear as he reads the other man’s reply.

 

_So we have finally moved on to other pet names? Perhaps I need to come up with something new for you, too. #Fiance Anon is fine, but I suspect I will need to think up an additional name for you, as well, now._

 

He assigns the post his usual tags, but then adds, “Further tags to be added when I come up with a suitable second moniker for the #Fiance Anon.”

“So I’m getting a new name, huh?” Dean asks.

“I figured it’s a nice segue to eventually adding a tag that just says Dean, if that’s okay with you, of course.”

Dean chuckles. “No, man. That’s fine with me. But I think we can drag it out a little bit. We can reveal it with little hints and clues. Sort of like we’ve been doing with each other for the last year. Make it a game.”

“That sounds perfect, Dean.”

 

They talk for close to two hours before Cas starts yawning. He’d been up early to drive out to his hives and collect Dean’s honey, and he’s still not done grading essays for the three classes he teaches, nor the research he needs to get done for his own thesis. Dean reluctantly lets him go after Cas promises to call back tomorrow once he gets most of his work done.

 

Sunday flies by in a blur for Dean. He makes a trip to the grocery store to be sure he’ll have everything on hand for baking once he gets his hands on that honey. There’s also a boatload of laundry and other chores that need to be taken care of around the house. Dean tries to handle as much of that mundane stuff as he can, leaving his brother free to focus on school and his friends. He figures at least one of them deserves to have a shot at a normal life, even though Dean genuinely enjoys where he’s found himself.

He loves how he was able to take his dad’s barely-scraping-by garage and turn it into his dream job (with a little encouragement and support from his baby brother). He’s able to support Sam as the brilliant sasquatch aces his way through college. They still live in their childhood home, white picket fence and all, even though it sometimes still feels a little empty, especially on lazy Sunday afternoons like this one.

In general, though, Dean’s content. He has Sam, his business, his car, and his friends. And for the last year, he’s had an almost-something with a nerdy beekeeper dude who talks in a smoke and gravel, earth-shattering rumble. Dean finds himself standing in the laundry room with a handful of wet towels, stuck halfway between pulling them from the washer and stuffing them in the dryer. He’s staring into the middle distance, knees on the verge of turning rubbery, at the mere memory of Cas growling his name over the phone. He wonders for a moment if he’ll actually survive meeting the guy in person.

Cas had refused to send him a selfie. _Those pictures are never good likenesses, Dean. You will know what I look like in a few days._

Dean would’ve been worried the guy looks like a troll, or maybe like one of his bees with the big weird eyes and tiny little mouth. Jess refused to describe him in detail, but he trusts her assessment that Cas is, in her words, pretty hot for an old guy. When Dean informs her that Cas is only four months older than him, Jess just shrugs as if Dean has proven her point. The sass is so strong in that one, and Dean regularly marvels at his brother’s luck in finding her.

By four o’clock, he’s officially run out of things to do around the house. He thinks about checking Tumblr, but Cas promised to call him when he got a chance. It’s strange to remember that he doesn’t have to stalk the guy’s blog anymore, hoping for some small sign that maybe his Bumblebee might’ve been thinking about him, even a little bit. Instead he can stare at his phone, hoping for a text; or even better, a call.

Dean’s stomach growls, so he decides to head back to the Roadhouse. If the place is busy, he can help out and earn himself a great burger and a beer or two. If it’s quiet, he can maybe convince Jo or Ellen to keep him company so he doesn’t spend the rest of the evening staring at his phone like a lovesick teenager.

 

The parking lot at the Roadhouse is nearly deserted. Dean recognizes Jo’s bike and Ellen’s truck, so at least he can probably talk one of them into having dinner with him. He might have tucked his phone safely into his jacket pocket, but just walking through the front door is giving him ideas.

Cas still wants to make their online relationship into a game for his other followers, and Dean is actually finding himself excited to play along. It was one thing to be the random anon guy who felt like an outsider, but now that he’s actually getting to know the real Cas, it gives him a little thrill to finally be on the inside.

Jo is alone behind the bar, leaning against the far rail and reading a tattered paperback she’d borrowed from Sam. Ellen’s nowhere to be seen, so she’s probably in the kitchen getting set up for dinner. Dean snags the corner bar stool, and waits to be noticed.

Without looking up from her book, Jo calls out, “What’ll it be, boss man?”

Dean snorts. “Be quiet with that kinda talk. I’m not your boss in here.”

Jo finally puts her book down. “You're still afraid of my mother, aren’t you.”

“Not afraid, per se. But it’s probably safer to stay on her good side. I like coming here too much.”

“You just don’t like sitting home alone on a Sunday night.” She shakes her head and pouts in a mockery of commiseration, and pours him a beer. “You want the usual?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

Jo sets the glass down in front of him, and waves around the nearly empty room. “I don’t know. We could get a rush any second now.”

“Shut up. I’ll have the usual. Thanks.”

She pokes him on the forehead, and turns to take his order back to the kitchen. As soon as she’s safely through the door, he pulls out his phone. He twists the glass around on its napkin until the etched logo is lined up perfectly, leans back so his shadow isn’t in the shot, and snaps a quick picture. With a glance around to make sure no one witnessed his hipster photography moment, he opens Tumblr and takes a sip of the beer while he’s waiting for it to load.

He’s been considering whether he should post it as an anonymous submission to Cas’s blog, or post it on his own. He could submit it and sign it #Fiance Anon, but Cas just posted a very similar picture two days ago. The people who’ve been sending Cas messages accusing him of writing all the #Fiance Anon asks himself might come out of the woodwork to whine at him again. Then again, if Dean posts it on his own blog, unless Cas reblogs it, none of his followers would likely ever see it. And if he did reblog it, their game would be up too soon. Dean decides to go ahead and submit it.

He makes sure the picture loads correctly, then types out, “Nothing particularly meditative going on here tonight. This one’s just a beer. Cheers to you, Bumblebee. From your #Fiance Anon.”

By the time Jo returns with his burger, his phone’s already tucked back in his pocket. There’s more than enough people in his life who’ve teased him about his online love life in the last few days. He just needs an hour of the sort of normal sibling banter he usually gets into with Jo, without handing her that much ammo right from the start.

He takes the first bite, and Jo asks him how he’s been. He steers clear of everything that’s been going on since he left work on Friday, and brings up the subject of the next restoration project he has lined up to start Wednesday.

Between the good food and general talk about work at the garage, Dean is happily distracted until someone pulls out the stool next to his. Jo immediately shifts gears back into bartender mode, and asks the guy what she can get him. Dean’s gobbling down the last bite of his cheeseburger when he replies.

“I’ll have what he’s having, thanks.”

Dean about chokes as soon as he hears the voice. He can’t even look up. The guy pats him hard on the back until Dean manages to swallow, take a deep breath, and wave him off. He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a fortifying sip of beer, and wishes he could go back in time two minutes.

He still hasn’t opened his eyes, but says, “Yes, I’m always this dignified. I hope that’s not a deal breaker.”

He hears Cas laugh next to him. “Of course not, Dean. Your refined charms are what attracted me to you in the first place.”

He finally looks up at the man he’s been crushing on for over a year. He’d been ready to reply the way he always did with Bumblebee, with something silly and flirtatious, but the moment he sees him, the words jumble up in his mouth and slide back down into his stomach like a rock.

He finds himself staring into the bluest eyes he’s ever seen, and that’s not even the half of it. Cas looks about as disheveled as Dean feels after running around trying to stay busy all day. His dark hair is standing out at odd angles like he’s been on the verge of tugging it out while reading his students’ essays, but it suits him. Dean resists the sudden and ridiculous impulse to reach out and run his fingers through it. He tries his best to take all of Cas in at once, from the black buttondown shirt and long legs in plain blue jeans, up to the satisfied smirk and tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He’s fighting a losing battle, though, and Cas finally lets him off the hook.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas.”

 

 

Thus ended step nine and forty-four one hundredths of the unmaking of Dean Winchester. (Of course I wouldn’t make this easy. Had to include at least one more random fraction.)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein our heroes experience something akin to a "date," and the author accidentally writes something akin to smut.

Jo brings out a burger for Cas, and pours them each another beer. She only acts a little bit put out when Cas picks up his food and drink, and heads back to the table he’d sat at with Charlie on Friday. Dean spares her a grateful smile, and follows after Cas.

Once again, they easily talk for several hours, long after their drinks are gone. Dean finds he infinitely prefers talking in person to talking over the phone, and not only because he keeps finding himself lost in the other man’s gorgeous and expressive eyes. No, at least half the fun of this is realizing that Cas seems equally lost in him.

At one point, Cas gets up to order himself a cup of coffee, and when he returns with it, he hesitates for a second before taking the seat next to Dean, instead of the one he’d occupied across the table. They’d spent the last little while slowly nudging their feet closer together beneath the table, and Cas had finally had enough.

“I do enjoy playing games, but this one has become almost agonizingly frustrating. I feel like we’ve spent more than a year playing level one over and over again. I hope you don’t mind,” Cas waves his hand between them.

“I’m more than happy to try any level you’d like, but maybe give a little warning before you drop me in the mirror world Rainbow Road. I only last about ten seconds before shooting off into space.”

Cas is relieved he wasn’t drinking his coffee yet, because he laughs so hard he’s sure he’d be wearing it. It gives Dean a chance to go back and replay what he said that was apparently so funny.

“Wait, no. Oh my god. No, that’s not, I didn’t mean it like that. Christ. Fuck. I meant in Mario Kart! In the game! Trust me, everything else you’re thinking about right now? Just, don’t.”

“I’ll take your word on that, for now.” Cas finally gets himself back under control, and leans in against Dean’s shoulder, smiling up at him. “But I will eventually need you to prove it.”

Dean’s too preoccupied with the warm line of Cas’s arm and shoulder pressed against his, and his mouth so enticingly close to his own. He can’t help it when he closes the last few inches and touches their lips together. He doesn’t put any sort of demand into it. It’s just a simple need he’d been aching to fill for the last hour while Cas had sat just out of reach. At least, until Cas finally pushes back, turning fully into the kiss.

Dean all but melts into Cas, and they shift and fumble in the tight space between the booth bench and the table, trying to press themselves closer together. When Dean moves to wrap his free arm around Cas’s shoulder, the other arm pinned uncomfortably against the seat back, he knocks over the forgotten coffee. He and Cas jump apart just in time to avoid a lap full of scalding liquid, and Dean races to grab enough napkins to sop up the mess.

“I think this is a sign,” Cas grumbles, returning to the table with a damp bar rag.

Dean stops dead, and risks a glance up at the other man as he picks up the overturned mug and swipes the tabletop clean. He couldn’t mean it’s a bad omen for their newly flourishing relationship, could he? Dean wonders if he’d seriously misjudged that kiss, because, brief as it may have been, he’d give it at least a nine out of ten. Even going by the Russian judge’s standards.

Cas only looks over at him and shrugs, before returning the empty mug and soiled rag to the bar. He exchanges a few words with Jo and Ellen that Dean can’t hear, but everyone laughs, so it couldn’t be that bad, right? When Cas comes back to the table, he’s fighting down a blush, though, so Dean has to reevaluate once again. He’s spared any further mental and emotional gymnastics when Cas says, “Perhaps we should move this elsewhere to avoid any further public humiliation.”

Dean collects the wad of damp napkins and grins. “This was by no means the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever been caught doing here. Jo and Ellen would probably classify this more along the lines of adorable than humiliating, if we’re going by my grading scale.”

“They have an intriguing concept of what qualifies as adorable, but since you know them better than I do, I’ll defer to your judgment.”

Dean slides out of the booth and heads toward the closest trash can, just inside the bar’s small kitchen, rather than face the Harvelle women on his own right then. He pauses to check his phone on his way back to Cas’s side, and is shocked to see it’s nearly nine o’clock.

Cas misinterprets Dean’s frown, and asks if everything is all right. Dean shoves his phone back in his pocket and smiles. “Yeah, everything is great. You know we’ve been sitting here for close to four hours?”

Cas’s eyes go wide for a second, and he pats himself down in search of his own phone. “Oh, wow. That can’t be right. But it apparently is.” He bites his lower lip and his brow furrows, but he drags his focus from the screen and stuffs his phone back into his pocket as if it had personally betrayed him by correctly informing him of the time.

“Are you late for your curfew or something?” Dean asks, trying to make it a joke, despite wishing more than anything that he actually owned a working time turner, instead of the movie prop version Charlie once spent ten minutes explaining to him. “I know it’s a school night and all.”

Cas smiles, but shakes his head. “When I saw your submission, I decided to take a chance that you would still be here. I was about to make something for dinner, and I planned to call you while I ate. When I left my apartment, I assumed I’d be gone from home an hour, or two at the most.”

“And you haven’t finished your work yet, right?” Dean confirms. “Well, I’m sorry I went and ruined your night, then.”

Cas steps even closer, leaving no more than a few inches between them, and reaches up to straighten Dean’s collar. “You also have a skewed concept of the definition of ‘ruined.’ I think I’m going to buy you a new dictionary. The one you’re using seems to be faulty.”

Dean fights to keep the grin off his face. He can’t control the blush, but dammit, he would not stand there grinning like a goofball. “You still trying to argue that I’m not adorable?”

“I think you have a fair understanding of that word, and I never said you weren’t adorable. But that is beside the point.”

Dean sighs and nods. “I get it, man. I have to be at work early tomorrow, too.”

Cas frowns and finally releases Dean’s shirt. “I suppose we really should call it a night, then. I practically ran the whole way here, and I didn’t consider the weather may have turned cooler after sundown. I didn’t even bring a coat.”

“I can drive you home. It’s the least I can do after ruining your evening.” Now he really is grinning, and he doesn’t even care anymore, because Cas smiles back.

“That would be lovely, Dean.”

 

Ten minutes later, they’re parked outside Cas’s apartment building, and Dean shuts off the engine. Cas is about to lean over to give Dean a goodnight kiss, but then he has a better idea.

In a hushed and raspy voice, he says, “I almost forgot, I have a present for you. If you’d like to come in for a minute, I can give it to you now. You’d save both me and Sam the trouble of carrying a heavy and fragile jar of honey around all day tomorrow.”

Dean clears his throat. “Well, when you put it like that, I’d be an ass not to”

Ten seconds later, they’re both out of the car and rushing up the walkway to the building’s entrance. Cas is grateful his apartment is on the ground floor, because he doesn’t think they could actually survive an elevator ride. He has the key in hand by the time they reach his door, Dean right at his heels.

Dean barely has a chance to take in the cozy little living room before he’s shoved back against the front door and pinned in place by Cas’s entire body. Dean hysterically thinks that Cas is a lot stronger than he looks, before a warm hand slides up his neck and stops just below his ear. In the dim light cast by a small desk lamp across the room, Dean can still see the battle playing out behind Cas’s eyes. Cas's fingertips slide back and forth across the short hair at the back of his neck, but there’s a hesitance that makes Dean pause, despite wanting to curl up like a cat in the comfort of Cas’s touch. He doesn’t move, just stands sandwiched between the heavy wooden door and his Bumblebee, and waits.

“I don’t normally do this sort of thing.”

Dean finally raises one hand to Cas’s hip with the intention of it being nothing more than a comforting touch. “I’m not sure what sort of thing you don’t normally do, but it doesn’t matter. We don’t have to do anything. But I would like to kiss you again. Just to make up for the last one getting cut short.”

Cas complies, pressing himself against Dean in his sudden overwhelming drive to fulfill Dean’s request. He crushes his mouth to Dean’s, his hand sliding further up into Dean's hair to keep the back of his head from smacking against the door.

Dean finally recovers from the shocking suddenness of Cas’s attack, and groans, parting his lips enough that Cas takes it as an invitation to deepen the kiss. His fingers squeeze down on Cas’s hip, and instinctively pull him closer as Cas nips at his lower lip before licking his way into his mouth.

It feels like it could be minutes or days that they’re locked together in a mess of hands and lips and tongues and teeth, until Cas tugs at Dean’s jacket, pulling it down off his shoulders. Dean’s reluctant to move his hands from where they’ve found their way to the warm skin of Cas’s back beneath his shirt, but he complies with the silent request and releases him to let it fall down his arms. Cas takes half a step back to allow the garment, trapped between Dean’s shoulders and the door, to drop to the floor. They separate for just a moment, but it lets them both catch their breath and assess the situation they’ve found themselves in.

“I said I don’t normally do this kind of thing, but what I meant is that I have never done this kind of thing.” Cas takes full advantage of the three inches between them to touch first Dean’s chest, and then his own.

Dean looks down at Cas’s hand, and then back up into his eyes. “What, bring someone home for sex on the first date?”

Cas’s eyes widen and he huffs out a broken sounding laugh. “I don’t think it’s realistic to consider this our first date, when you take our history into account. But I meant this, literally. I have never felt the desire to be with anyone this way before. You make me feel things, and want things, that I never thought I would. My whole life, I doubted there was anyone out there for me, and then something strange happened. You’ve done something to me, changed something fundamental in me. And you needed to know that.”

It’s Dean’s turn to hesitate now. He thinks back to the picture from Thursday night. “Is this why you posted what you did, about longing for some kind of a profound bond with someone?”

Cas seems relieved that Dean understands so quickly. “Yes, exactly. Is that strange, that I felt so close to you before you even knew who I really was?”

Dean thinks about everything, the entire year of their anonymous relationship, because that’s what it is. “I didn’t know your name, but you can’t tell me I didn’t know who you are. And if it’s strange, then I’m strange, too, because for months, the only thing I’ve wanted is to meet you in real life. And this?” Dean places one hand over Cas’s where it still rests against his heart. “I felt that longing, too. Is it strange that it made me feel a little jealous, wondering if you were thinking about someone else when you posted it?”

Cas looks down at their hands, and twines their fingers together over his pounding heart, a small smile curling his lips. “I admit, I was hoping to stir enough of a reaction to entice you to reply.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. One of us had to be brave enough, or crazy enough, to take the chance.”

“And your reply was more than I’d ever hoped for.”

They stand there for a moment, Dean’s thumb brushing back and forth over Cas’s where they’re still clasped together. Neither of them want to break the spell of their tender confessions, but it’s becoming harder to resist the draw of the heat growing between them. Before things get out of hand again, Dean feels the need to clarify.

“So, when you said you’ve never done this before, you meant any of this.”

“I’m not a blushing virgin, if that’s what you’re implying. But aside from a few fumbling attempts to fulfill the stereotype of a red-blooded American male teenager, the rest of this is new territory for me. With you, I don’t feel like I’m simply going through the expected motions like an actor reading from a script. This feels real.”

Dean draws him into a hug, and whispers, “Oh god, this better be real.”

Cas turns his face in to kiss his way up the side of Dean’s neck. He stops below Dean’s ear to focus on a particular spot that sends a shiver down Dean’s spine. “I assure you, it’s all real.”

“I swear, when I followed you in here, I was hoping to maybe get a goodnight kiss and walk out with a jar of honey. That’s it. But fuck me, I don’t wanna leave now.”

“I’m not asking you to leave, but is that what you want?”

Dean’s brain is too focused on the small patch of skin currently being worked over by Cas’s mouth to follow the conversation at this point. “Do.. ung… do I want to leave?”

“No, Dean.” Cas’s voice drags across his skin like hot sandpaper, and Dean reacts by twisting his fingers up into Cas's hair to keep him from moving away. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

It’s a surprising enough question to kick a few of Dean’s brain cells back into gear. Dean tenses up enough for Cas to notice. He blinks up into Dean’s face, ready to apologize for being presumptuously forward, but Dean speaks first.

“I honestly wouldn’t say no, but I wasn’t lying about being happy with a kiss for now. I really don’t want to risk fucking this up like I usually do. You mean too much to me.”

Cas studies him for a moment and then nods. “You don’t want to leave, and I don’t want you to leave. Since we are in agreement on that, will you just stay?”

Dean smiles. “I can do that.” He lets Cas lead him down the hall to his bedroom.

They undress each other slowly, stopping to run hands and mouths over every newly revealed bit of skin, learning the dips and bends of each other’s bodies. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever received such a careful and thorough examination by anyone, and Cas is positive he hasn’t.

Standing in the middle of the room, clad in nothing but boxers, they finally rediscover each other’s lips, and cling to each other, just kissing, as if either of them could think of this as “just” anything. They break apart to catch their breath, and Dean drops to his knees, tugging down on Cas’s waistband enough to reveal one perfect hip bone. He licks his way across it before biting down gently. A shiver runs through Cas, and Dean soothes it away with his hands. He looks up into Cas's eyes and gives the other side of his waistband a little tug.

“Is this okay?”

Cas nods almost frantically, but still answers in a craggy, broken voice, “Yes, please.”

With nothing in the room close enough to grab on to, he latches his fingers into Dean’s hair and holds on. Dean takes this as a hint, and nudges Cas backward, inching forward on his knees, until Cas’s legs bump up against the side of his bed.

Dean climbs back up and kisses him once more before laying him out on top of the blankets and crawling up after him. Again he stops at Cas’s waist, mouthing at his other hip before curling his fingers into the elastic and asking for permission. This time, Cas reaches down to wrap his hands around Dean's, and raises his hips enough to slide his boxers off. Dean slips them down his legs and kicks them off the edge of the bed, and wastes no more time wondering if he’s rushing things, or if he’s going to fuck everything up, or if this is what Cas really wants.

There’s no more teasing or exploring to be done, so Dean takes a deep breath and swallows him down. Cas can’t help but thrust upward into the overwhelming heat of Dean’s mouth. Dean presses his hips against the mattress to hold him still, and Cas’s hands scramble for something to hold on to. His right hand finds Dean’s shoulder, and the left reaches up to latch on to the headboard as he stares down at Dean, marveling that this beautiful man he’d longed to be closer to for so long was finally here, with him, driving him half out of his mind with pleasure.

“Dean. Dean, I’m not… I can’t…”

Dean’s only reply is to hum around him and increase his pace, glancing up to watch Cas crumble to pieces by his touch. He’s rewarded with Cas’s fingers clenching into the muscle of his upper arm hard enough to leave a bruise as he growls out Dean’s name and comes.

Dean kisses his way back up Cas’s body as he lays limp beneath him, struggling to regain his breath. Cas paws at him weakly until Dean obeys his wishes and is up on his hands and knees, lined up above Cas. Once he’s in position, Cas flings an arm around his neck and hauls him down for another kiss, groaning at the taste of himself in Dean’s mouth.

Cas proves his strength again, flipping Dean over onto his back and sliding down to remove his boxers in one quick motion. He kneels between Dean’s thighs, running his hands up and down the length of his reach along Dean’s sides, hips, and legs. Dean writhes under his touch, shifting his hips to encourage more. Instead, Cas bends forward just enough that his breaths against Dean’s skin have gone beyond teasing and are edging toward torture.

“Cas, you’re driving me crazy. If you don’t touch me soon, I’ll be forced to take matters into my own hands, here.”

He looks up into Dean’s eyes, and slides one hand up the inside of his thigh. Dean rocks his hips up to meet Cas’s hand as it wraps around his length, and moans out Cas’s name as he begins to stroke, almost too gently, like this almost isn’t real. He _needs_ this to be real.

“Please, Cas.” He reaches down and runs his fingers through Cas’s hair, not to guide him, but just because Dean needs to touch him. “Please, Bumblebee.”

That's all the encouragement Cas needs. With his hands and mouth, and a grumbling groan of pleasure that shoots straight up Dean’s spine, Cas takes him apart and reassembles him again and again until Dean finally breaks entirely, coming so hard he nearly blacks out.

He regains his senses to see Cas licking his lips and crawling slowly up to lie at his side.

“Was that satisfactory?”

Dean laughs, wrapping his arms around Cas and pulling him snug against him. “So much more than satisfactory.”

Dean kisses him, first on the forehead, and then wriggles down enough to kiss his lips. They lie there, kissing each other gently until they both begin to nod off. Cas tugs at the blankets, trying to convince a very sleepy Dean to shift over enough to get beneath the covers. He whines a little, but complies. Anything to stay pressed up against a warm and sleepy Cas for a little bit longer.

 

His alarm is set for six, because Dean has to be at the garage by seven, but he wakes up in a strange room around five thirty. Even in the dark, it only takes him a second to realize where he is, still wrapped up in his Bumblebee. Cas’s hair is tickling his nose, because he apparently fell asleep while kissing Cas’s forehead as the other man snuggled down against his chest. Their legs are entwined, and Dean’s right arm has gone numb from being wedged under Cas’s shoulders all night. His left arm is still wrapped tightly around Cas’s back; Cas’s right hand still holding on to his shoulder as if he were afraid Dean would try to sneak out during the night if he let go.

Dean realizes that if he’d been with anyone else, he would’ve left hours ago. It’s been years since he’s stuck around long enough to wake up with anyone. For the first time in his life, it’s not something he’s dreading. Unconsciously, he’s gently rubbing his hand along Cas’s back. The soothing gesture is just enough to draw the other man into wakefulness.

Cas blinks up at him, and arches his back in a little stretch as a small smile spreads across his face. “Good morning, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas. Sorry if I woke you. It’s still early. You can probably go back to sleep.”

Cas twists around enough to see the clock on his nightstand, and rolls back against Dean. “No, I normally wake up about now anyway. Although I don’t have to check Tumblr this morning to see how you’re doing, so I have some spare time today.”

“I see. And what do you intend to do with this spare time?”

“This, what you’re doing there, is very enjoyable.”

“You mean this?” Dean lets his hand slide farther across the expanse of Cas’s shoulders and back.

“Hmmm. Yes. And I can get the update on how you’re doing this morning direct from the source.”

Dean’s hand stops for a moment, but then resumes its motion. “You know how you said you never do this kind of thing? Well, I never do _this_ kind of thing.”

Cas jokingly tosses back the same line Dean had given him the night before. “You mean go home with someone for sex on the first date?”

Dean is serious when he responds, though. “No. I mean, _staying_. Even when I was in a serious relationship with someone, which, damn, was like five years ago now, I never stayed. It just never felt… necessary. I used to blame Sam, said I had to be home for him. But that was just an excuse. I don’t know. But with you? I still don’t want to leave.”

“I still don’t want you to leave.” Cas closes the inches between them, and kisses Dean chastely before resettling against his chest, and hugging him tighter. “I would be content to stay here just like this.”

Dean hums, and lets his eyes close for just a minute, letting himself relax and enjoy holding on to his Bumblebee, just like he’d promised to do. A nearly identical thought passes through Cas’s mind as he clings back.

Neither of them mention it out loud, but they both notice how closely their current embrace resembles that photograph.

 

Thus ended step nine and eleven twelfths of the unmaking of Dean Winchester (which I had to squeeze into the middle of this chapter because damn it just runs on and on, but in a good way, I hope).


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein the story comes to a semi-logical conclusion. *insert generic warning for fluff so strong you'll see little birdies tweeting around your head by the time you're done* *insert standard disclaimer that the author is not responsible for any pie-eyed delusion you may experience as a result of ingesting this chapter*

They eventually get up and share a quick shower that takes quite a bit longer than either of them intends, leaving them barely enough time to have coffee and toast before they both have to rush off to work. Dean drops Cas off on campus on his way to the garage, and then drives the rest of the way with one hand holding on to the jar of honey Cas collected for him.

He’s still wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday, but it doesn’t matter much. He spends most of the day covered head to toe in a protective jumpsuit while he prepares and paints the Corvette a glossy fire engine red. The upside to this is after a long and arduous day, when he finally unzips the jumpsuit, he can still smell Cas on his clothes.

They talk on the phone at both their lunch and dinner breaks, but text each other constantly throughout the day. When Dean crawls into bed alone on Monday night, he consoles himself with a _Good night, Dean, sleep well_ text from Cas, still wearing the shirt that carries just a tiny hint of Cas’s scent.

 

Tuesday morning finds Dean’s mood much improved. Not only does he have nothing strenuous planned for work, but Cas might have time after class to swing by and witness the Baking of the Pie. Cas is the one who insists on the capital letters. He went on in his next text to declare that it should be an annual celebration, the Baking of the Pie Day. Dean tries to talk him into a weekly pie baking day, but they end up compromising. The second Tuesday of every month will henceforth be honored with pie.

Charlie comes into the garage midmorning to take artsy pictures of the finished Corvette for the WinchesterAuto blog. Dean’s just putting the finishing touches on the text portion of the post when she arrives with her camera to download the pictures.

“I haven’t heard a peep outta you since Saturday. You doing okay?” She asks, as they sort through and select half a dozen of the best shots.

“I’m doing great.” He’s focused on arranging the pictures into the post, and doesn’t notice Charlie studying him like a science project that might be on the verge of exploding.

“Are you sure? Because I worry about you, Dean. And I’m sorry if I messed things up for you and Cas, but maybe everything will be okay still. Have you talked to him at all yet?”

Dean breaks into a fit of near hysteria, and stands up suddenly to pull a confused and alarmed Charlie into a tight hug. “I forgot to say thank you. Yeah, you might say we’ve talked some.”

She reels back and punches Dean in the ribs as hard as she can manage while still squashed against him. “And you let me feel awful all weekend? How hard is it to send a text?”

“I’m sorry, Charlie.” He finally releases her, and sits back down to finish assembling the post. “I guess everything happened so fast, and I haven’t even really told Sam anything yet. But then again he probably figured it out for himself when I didn’t make it home Sunday night.”

Dean’s phone buzzes, alerting him to another text from Cas. He was just finishing up his last class, and would be at Deans in half an hour. Dean sends him a quick reply, and puts the phone down to finish up as quick as he could.

“So, when are you seeing him again?”

“As soon as this posts,” Dean says, clicking the post button with a little flourish and spinning in his chair to face Charlie. “So, like, now.”

“Oh, wow. So this is really serious then.”

Dean just shrugs. “Yep.”

“And you’re not freaking out about it.”

“Nope.”

Charlie continues to stare him down. “I just worry, because I know you, Dean. You’ve never been this calm about a relationship with anyone.”

“This is different, Charlie. I mean, it’s like we’ve known each other forever. I just feel better when he’s around. Is that weird? Because it doesn’t feel weird. It’s good.”

Charlie reaches out and refreshes the Tumblr page to admire the new post and her classy photographs, but then signs into Dean’s other account just for the hell of it. He groans, but leans back and lets her have her way with the computer.

“Neither one of us has posted a hell of a lot over the last few days.”

“Ooh, did you see this, though?”

She turns the monitor so he can see what she finds so exciting. It’s his submission to Cas’s blog, the picture of his beer at the Roadhouse on Sunday afternoon. Cas must’ve posted it sometime on Monday. Tacked on below his little toast to his Bumblebee, and the comment that this one was just a beer, nothing meditative about it, Cas added, “Ah, if only you possessed the gift of prophecy, you may have foreseen where your toast would lead! Thank you for thinking of me, dearest #Fiance Anon. I am still trying to determine a suitable additional tag for you.”

Dean grins at the post, and Charlie glares at him. “You sent him that picture on Sunday, didn’t you?”

“Yup. And he showed up at the Roadhouse fifteen minutes later.”

“And?”

“And what? We ate, we drank, we talked for like four hours, and then I drove him home.”

“You drove him home and then spent the night with him.”

“So? What, are you gonna give me the birds and bees talk or something now?”

Charlie grumbles, but relents. “No. I just want to make sure you’re not rushing in to this. I don’t want to see either of you hurt. I mean, I’ve known you forever, and I just met Castiel, but I really like him. He’s a decent guy. So please, be careful? Don’t be your usual asshole self, for once?”

“Thank you for that ringing endorsement, Charles. Now I remember why I befriended you in the first place.”

“Shut up, you know I’m awesome. But I am also a realist. And you, while often a decent person, are on occasion known to be a gigantic ass. So I worry.”

Dean stands up, more than ready to leave. If he doesn’t hurry it up, Cas’ll be standing on his front porch wondering where the hell he is. “I get it, Charlie, but you really don’t have anything to worry about this time. Cas is different. And I’m different with him.”

Charlie has no choice but to take his word for it, because he’s out the door with a grin and a wave before she can get another word in.

Dean gets home five minutes before Cas rings the bell. He has to force himself to stay in the kitchen to bake, because he can think of about fifty things he’d rather be doing with all that honey, and Cas hovering around like an overeager bee isn’t helping his concentration. Every chance they get they are touching, or kissing, or smearing dabs of honey onto each other and licking it off. They restrain themselves a bit when Sam gets home, but he’s grossed out enough just watching them be cute together without even touching that he excuses himself to his room to study after just a few minutes.

In addition to the pie, Cas makes an orange honey cake, and then together they prepare a lasagna for dinner. Sam wanders down to ask what smells so good, only to find them curled up together on the couch, talking quietly, completely wrapped up in each other in every way. He leaves them be, and goes to check on dinner for himself.

After dinner, Sam returns to his room to study, with a stern warning about sound carrying and thin walls, but his grinning sort of ruins the effect. That, and Dean knows just how thick their walls really are. Sam is grateful that his room is at the opposite end of the hall from Dean’s. Cas is mainly grateful to Dean’s tongue, among other things. Dean is mainly grateful that Cas stayed with him.

 

Wednesday morning doesn’t last long enough for either Dean or Cas. They both have to be at work early again, but they spend every last second before they have to leave in near constant contact. Sam has to be on campus about the same time as Cas, and he reluctantly agrees to the ride Sam offers. Even though it would’ve made Dean late to open up the garage, he had offered to drive Cas himself. Anything to spend just a few more minutes together.

Dean starts in on his next project, a 1955 Chevy Bel Air. He stops for breaks when Cas calls, and spends his lunch break in his office on the phone, which has Jo and Krissy gossiping in the reception area when he comes out.

“Talkin’ to hot stuff again, boss?” Jo teases.

Dean rolls his eyes and sends her back to work. Krissy is still grinning at him, though, so he rightly assumes Jo told her all about his Sunday evening at the Roadhouse.

Dean just points at her, trying to think of something suitably authoritative to say, blushes a little, and walks off back into the shop. It’s no use trying to pretend he has any actual authority over his employees, and he knows it.

Wednesday night, Dean’s still at the shop at dinner time, because Cas has an evening lecture that night, followed by a meeting with his PhD advisor. He won’t be done until late, and they agree to meet on Thursday afternoon, instead. It’s starting to really bug Dean that he can only spend a few nights a week with Cas. It should make him feel ridiculous, but when Cas calls during his dinner break, it feels like a hundred pound weight is lifted from his shoulders by the sound of his voice alone, and that doesn’t make him feel ridiculous at all.

 

Thursday morning, Dean shows up at the garage even earlier than usual. He had trouble sleeping in his cold and empty bed without his octopus of a Bumblebee to hang on to. When he strolls out of the shop at two o’clock, he’s already had to turn away three offers to buy the Bel Air when it’s completed. It’s in a lot better shape than he remembered, and he’s arranged to have the interior reupholstered in a rich, bright yellow and black. He has other plans for this particular car.

He swings by to pick Cas up from his apartment, and they go for a drive. Cas had asked what he does on his long and meditative road trips, so Dean decides to show him. It proves to be a lot more fun and a lot less meditative with Cas in the passenger seat, and their hands entwined between them.

They stop at a roadside diner about an hour from home for dinner. They don’t linger like they did that first night at the Roadhouse, because they know they can stay with each other now. When they return to Cas’s apartment just after dusk, Dean pulls a small duffle bag with a change of clothes and his toothbrush from the back seat, and follows Cas inside.

 

Friday is the first morning they have together where they don’t have to rush. Cas only has one class at ten, and Dean has no intention of leaving before Cas absolutely has to. They lie in bed together long after they’re awake.

“I know it’s only been a few days, so this is gonna sound stupid, but I don’t really sleep well without you anymore,” Dean confesses.

“Truth be told, neither do I.”

“I’ve never been able to just sleep with someone else. I always felt strange, like I had to watch my back. I couldn’t let go and rest. And now, I can’t seem to relax when you’re not there.”

“This poses a dilemma.”

“Yes, it does.” Dean draws Cas in closer. “I want to wake up like this every morning.”

“I would not object to that.”

“Really?” Dean leans back far enough to see Cas clearly. “You wouldn’t?”

“Of course not, Dean. I love waking up with you, especially this morning, because I know that tonight, I won’t have to go back to bed alone again.”

Dean hesitates for just a few seconds while he reevaluates his current mental status to make sure he hasn’t suffered some sort of brain trauma, before taking a deep breath and just going for it.

“Would you like to, then?”

“Would I like to what?”

“Wake up together every morning, go to sleep together every night. I want to keep you, Cas. I know we’ve only known each other properly for less than a week, but I feel like I’ve known you for years. That time, about a year ago, when you had to turn off your anon? You should’ve seen me. I almost cracked and sent you a message, because I missed talking to you so much. I finally worked myself up to it, and went to message you, but you’d just turned the anon back on. I took it as some sort of sign from the gods, or whatever. I chickened out.”

Cas laughs. “I didn’t plan to turn it back on, initially. The only reason I did was because I missed you.”

“And then when your internet connection wasn’t working, I was going out of my mind. Sam thought I suffered some sort of psychotic break because I was pacing around and muttering under my breath about bees. He almost had me committed, but then you were back. So yeah, I’m sorry for the onslaught of weird messages I sent that week.”

“I understood. And I’m sorry, I should’ve found some way to let you know. It wasn’t my internet connection. I had to go out of town unexpectedly for a family emergency. My older brother was in a car accident, and with our parents gone, he needed someone to take care of things for him while he was in the hospital recovering. I didn’t want to put that kind of personal information on the blog, but I was so exhausted every night I just didn’t have the energy to try and update the blog on my phone. Gabriel’s exhausting enough when he’s perfectly healthy, but stuck in bed he becomes a vindictive dictator.”

“Wow, I’m sorry. And somehow I still feel guilty that I didn’t know any of this. I feel like I should’ve been there for you. And I want to be there for you now. Every day. So will you?”

“What are you asking, Dean?”

“God this sounds dumb, but will you move in with me? It doesn’t have to be right away, but whenever you’re ready. I just wondered if you might want to, someday, or today, or whatever.”

Cas leans back, his eyes still steady on Dean, but he needs a little more space to consider this than he had pressed up against Dean from head to toe. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on the home you’ve made with your brother.”

“We have space, Cas. You can even have my old room to use as an office, if you want. Sam’s only home about half the time anyway, between classes and all the time he spends with Jess and their friends. He’s usually only home a few nights a week. It’s mostly just me rattling around by myself like the ghost of Christmas yet to come. And I want you there.”

He can tell how serious Dean is about this. He’s obviously put some thought into the idea, but there’s one last hurdle to overcome if he is seriously considering the offer. “I would need a way to get back and forth to school, and also a ride at least once a week to visit my hives. I’d been getting a ride from my advisor, but he lives in my building and keeps his bees in the same orchard where I keep mine, so it was convenient.”

Dean grins at him, but immediately tries to cover it up. “So is that a yes, then?”

“It’s a conditional yes. And I want to make sure it’s okay with Sam first, too.”

“Awesome.” Dean dives in for an enthusiastic kiss, before pulling back one last time. Cas looks a little disappointed that he stopped, but Dean doesn’t let it bother him. This is too important. He raises a hand to cup Cas’s cheek and makes sure he has his full attention. “I love you, Cas, and I just want you to stay with me.”

Cas nods, blinking rapidly to clear the sting out of his eyes. “I love you, too, Dean. And I will.”

 

Cas walks up to the garage that afternoon to find all the bay doors open, balloons and streamers everywhere, and an extraordinary number of people milling around. There’s even a few people dancing along to Dean’s usual mix of classic rock. Stretched across the front office window is a huge, colorful banner that says “Winchester Auto Customer Appreciation Day,” surrounded by cartoon fireworks exploding in every color of the rainbow. Sam and another man are standing at a large grill cooking hamburgers and hot dogs, while Ellen and a blonde woman he believes he recognizes as Sam’s girlfriend Jess are pouring beer and serving sodas and bottled water. On another table is a huge sheet cake that just says THANK YOU in bold green frosting letters, about a quarter of it already sliced and served on small plates.

He sees Jo and Charlie sitting in the grass at the side of the parking lot, eating cake and laughing about something. He recognizes a few other people from around town, and some of his students. Sam’s partner on their last class project, Garth, waves hello from the shade of one of the open garage bay doors. The only person he can’t seem to find is Dean.

He wanders over toward Sam, hoping he knows where his brother is hiding. Sam hands him two plates of food, and Jess sneaks a can of Coke into each of the pockets of his jacket with a wink, and directs him back to Dean’s office.

Dean is sitting at his desk, just finishing up with the weekly paperwork, when Cas walks in with their food.

“Hey, Cas. I’m glad you’re here. Gives me an even better excuse to hide out back here instead of mingling out in the crowd.”

Cas places one of the plates in front of Dean, and pulls the sodas from his pockets before removing his coat and sitting down across the desk from Dean. “You aren’t enjoying your party?”

Dean shrugs. “I told Sam I didn’t want to have a party in the first place.”

“But you have an excellent reason to celebrate. You should at least make a showing to thank all the people who helped you get there.”

Dean keeps eating, but nods. “I will. After food.”

“Did you even stop for lunch today?” Cas watches, bemused, as Dean practically engulfs his burger and chips like a starving man.

“Nah. I had to finish something important.”

“Dean, you are the most important thing to me. You should take better care of yourself.”

Dean finishes his sandwich, and stands up. “Yeah, but you’re the most important thing to me, so come on.”

He leads Cas out into the garage, stopping several times to exchange a few words with customers. It’s a little jarring for him, to have his workspace overrun like this. He nods and smiles, and thanks everyone, but keeps dragging Cas along by the hand to the farthest workstation. It’s the only bay still occupied by a lumpy something under a huge tarp. Cas can tell it’s a car, but that’s about it. He’s not exactly a car guy; heck, he doesn’t even own one.

“You ready?” Dean asks, both hands wrapped around a corner of the tarp.

Cas nods, and Dean drags the cloth away with a flourish, flinging it aside into a rumpled heap the corner.

“Well, what do you think? It obviously needs a paint job, and the upholstery won’t be ready until next week, but otherwise it’s just about perfect.”

Cas looks at the obviously old but remarkably restored vehicle. It’s an unattractive shade of flat gray, and he can tell from peering through the window that it has no seats. “It will be hard to drive without seats, and I agree that this color isn’t exactly a showstopper.”

Dean just laughs, and throws an arm around his shoulders. “That’s just the primer coat. Don’t worry, it’ll be glossy black when I’m done with her. And the seats are coming back before she goes anywhere.”

Dean guides him around to check out the engine, entirely rebuilt. “I’ve had this sitting out back for years. I’d work on her once in a while when I got frustrated with a client’s project and just needed to do something fun for a bit. I thought about finishing and selling her a few times, but for some reason I hung on to her. So when she’s done, she’s yours. You can drive out to visit your bees every damn day if you want to. Just promise I get to drive her once in a while. And don’t mention that to Baby. She gets jealous.”

“Dean, I can’t…”

“You can, and you damn well better. I’d shove you behind the wheel and make you sit there until you accept her, but seeing as there’s no seat yet, that’s probably gonna have to wait for a bit.”

Cas smiles up at him, and Dean suddenly doesn’t care that his garage has been overrun by veritable strangers. It doesn’t matter that everyone who matters in his life conspired against him, dug through what he’d once thought of as the most embarrassing corner of his personal life, even if it was for his own good, because this is worth all of that ten times over.

“Yes, Dean. I accept. Thank you. She’ll be beautiful when she’s done.” He runs a tentative hand along her quarter panel, fingers skimming the slightly gritty texture of the primer. “Can I post a picture of her? It won’t show any identifiable detail, but we haven’t revealed anything new in the last few days.”

Dean grins, at the acceptance and the opportunity to flaunt his good fortune, even if it’s only under the #Fiance Anon tag. “Sure. You want me to pose with her?”

“I think I’d like that very much.”

“Where do you want me?”

They shuffle around, looking for a spot to photograph that definitely identifies her as a car rather than a shapeless gray blob, but won’t be distinctive enough to suss out make and model. They are still playing a game, after all. Since they posted pictures of both their pie and honey cake on Tuesday, Cas has seen a spike in questions and incoherent keysmash squealing over whether he really is in a relationship with his #Fiance Anon. He even had to create a new tag to answer the questions about which was better, the pecan pie or the honey cake. So yes, he now has a bewilderingly active #Pie vs Cake tag.

Dean crouches down with his back against the driver’s side door, sitting on his heels with his hands resting on his knees. Cas steps back and takes one picture, then shows it to Dean. It only shows his right arm and part of his chest from his shoulder down to where his fingers dangle over the edge of his knee. Half the shot is of him, and the other half is the gray primer of the car’s door with just a tiny glint in the upper left corner where the shop lights shine off the chrome of the side view mirror. It’s perfect for the blog, but Dean asks him to take one more picture for himself.

Cas steps even farther back this time, capturing most of the side of his car, and all of Dean, still resting against the door, but this time grinning like he’s just won the lottery. While he’s there, Cas takes one more, just of Dean, happiness pouring off of him. He sets it as his wallpaper, and then quickly writes up a post for his blog. Below that first picture, he writes, “The #Fiance Anon has surprised me with another gift, as if the pie wasn’t a sufficient demonstration of his devotion.” He tags it #Fiance Anon, and #guess which is which.

When it posts, he shows it to Dean, who snorts. “Yeah, that’s not gonna cause a riot.”

Cas smiles and pockets his phone. “I am looking forward to a flurry of asks about whether the gift is the man or the car.”

“And what are you gonna tell them?” Dean takes him by the hand and draws him in close enough for a quick kiss.

“Both. Definitely both.”

“You were right, in that letter you wrote me the night Charlie found you. Neither one of us is going to ruin this. We’re just gonna keep saving each other.”

 

Thus ended step 10 of the unmaking of Dean Winchester (which was really just the beginning of the new and improved Dean Winchester, but we don’t need to mention that to him. As far as he’s concerned, it doesn’t really matter as long as everyone who counts is happy.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it to the end, thank you and congratulations. I'm usually on tumblr at [mittensmorgul](http://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com) mostly flailing about Supernatural.
> 
> **UPDATE: There might or might not be a bonus chapter to this story coming up soon. (there totally is.)
> 
> ***UPDATED UPDATE: There will be a third story posting to this 'verse soon!


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